


Going It Alone

by Clowns_or_Midgets



Series: Going It Alone [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Demon Deals, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 92,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1399651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clowns_or_Midgets/pseuds/Clowns_or_Midgets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After three months of searching for a demon to deal with, Sam finds one that says yes. Dean is saved. This is the story of Dean fighting to define a life without his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Though this story is predominantly Dean’s, the first two chapters are Sam’s story as we say goodbye.   
> I know in canon Ruby said no demon had the power to release Dean from Hell, but I am ignoring that in favor of telling the story that has been teasing me since I first watched 4.09 — I Know What You Did Last Summer.

The sky was an inky black dotted with stars. It used to be the kind of night Sam loved, one of those nights in which they would park the Impala in the middle of nowhere and sit on the hood, watching the stars. Those nights had come and gone though, there was no one to share the stars with anymore.

The crunch of gravel and his deep breaths were the only sound that broke the night. The animals you would expect in this part of Nebraska were absent. Perhaps they knew what lurked on this deserted road and they knew well enough to stay away. This was a place of darkness, even when the midday sun was beating down. Evil things lurked here.

He came to the right place in the road and he squatted. It was a little used path and the asphalt was covered with a deep layer of gravel, so he was able to make his offering easily enough. He laid the small tin in the hole he had uncovered and stamped the gravel down over it. Heaving out a great sigh, he closed his eyes and waited.

The first sign that he wasn’t alone was a low throaty laugh. His eyes opened and he was staring into the face of a young woman with long, flowing black hair. Her russet skin made him think of Native Americans. She was beautiful, with her high cheekbones and almond eyes. Her full lips curved into a smile as she stared at him.

“Well, well, I wondered when it would be my turn.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and stared her down. “Can you give me what I want?”

She walked forwards, walking in a circle around him. He could feel her eyes on his back, but he didn’t turn to face her. She was trying to unnerve him, but he was beyond such tawdry manipulation. As she came to stand in front of him again, he thought he saw a glimmer of respect in her eyes for her failure to show his disquiet at her stalking him like an animal.

“I _could_ give you what you want,” she said in a conversational tone.

For the first time in three months, he felt something akin to hope. All the demons he had spoken to up till then had refused him outright. His jaw tightened as he fought to hide every emotion. Knowledge was power and he didn’t want her knowing what he was feeling so she could use it against him. That was the mistake he had made before. His desperation had been obvious in his shaking hands and slurred speech, the result of too much alcohol. He was smarter now; he had learned from his mistakes.

“Will you?”

She considered him for a moment. “Maybe.”

At least it wasn’t an outright no, he thought.

“You'll have to break it down for me. What _exactly_ do you want?”

“I want to take his place,” he said.

She tapped her chin with one well-manicured, blood red fingernail. “Keep talking.”

“I don't want ten years. I don't want one year. I want to trade places with him.”

She smirked. “A straight swap. Intriguing. I can’t deny I have been waiting for you to come to me. We had orders, you see. No one was to deal with a Winchester again.”

He noted the use of the past tense. “You _had_ orders. What about now?”

She raised her hands to shoulder height. “They still stand for the others.”

“But you?”

“Me… What I want isn’t covered by orders. I have been waiting for you a long time. Three long months in fact. It took you long enough to find me.”

His features twisted into a grim mockery of a smile. “What can I say, I’ve been busy.”

She smiled knowingly. “So have we.”

He didn’t much care about that. He had a feeling he was close to reaching his heart’s desire and any intrigue she was trying to cultivate would only divert him from his true purpose. “Will you give me what I want?”

She was silent for so long that he was sure she wasn’t going to answer. He had almost decided to cut his losses here and move onto the next crossroads when she spoke up. “I will do one better. I will give you something you haven’t asked for. Time. You can have a day to put your affairs in order before we come for you.”

“I don’t want time,” he said brutally. Time was a bad idea. Time would give his brother a chance to find him. As much as he wanted to see Dean again, he didn’t want him to have to see him dragged to Hell. He wanted no one to witness that.

“Too bad,” she said. “Because you are going to get it. Call it my reward. I _want_ him to find you. I want him to see you dragged to Hell.”

“Why would you care?” he asked.

“Because I owe him.”

“What did he do to you?”

Her lips curled back in a snarl better suited to a dog. “He killed my father.”

He understood now why she was making the deal against orders. It was revenge for them both. He didn’t care though. The ends justified the means. He would get what he wanted, his brother’s freedom.

“Do we have a deal?” she asked.

In response, he stepped forward and gripped the back of her head. He pulled her towards him and slammed their lips together. She moaned into his mouth, and his stomach rebelled the contact. His nostrils were filled with the smell of sulfur and he had to fight against his instincts to not pull away.

Eventually, she pulled back from him panting. “I can see the attraction,” she said breathlessly.

He wiped his hand across his mouth, disgusted at what had just happened yet jubilant at his success. “Are we done?”

“Yes, Sam Winchester, we’re done.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last part of the story dedicated solely to Sam. We will be hearing from Dean in the next chapter. I thought it was important to give Sam his dues before we follow Dean though.

**Chapter Two**

The rain started as he reached the place he‘d parked the Impala. It drizzled down, soaking through the collar of his jacket and running down his back. He rubbed a hand over his face, swiping away the streaks of water that looked like tears. He wasn’t crying though. He _had_ cried. At first, he had cried so much that he thought he would never be able to stop. Eventually, his traitorous eyes had come to understand that there was nothing to be gained from crying. It was just a show of weakness that _they_ reveled in. His dealings with the demons were over now, though. He had made the deal he had been working for since the minute he stamped the last clod of earth over his brother’s grave, so he could cry, but he had no desire to. There were things to be sad about, the people he was leaving behind, the fact he would never get a chance to see his brother again, but the feeling of triumph overwhelmed any sadness. He had done it.

He unlocked the car door and climbed in behind the wheel. Even now, after months of driving across the states, searching for the right crossroads, it felt wrong to be behind the wheel. That was Dean’s place. Sam’s place was shotgun, where he could handle the maps as they explored the open roads of America. It wasn’t for much longer now, though. Soon, Dean would be back to claim his place behind the wheel, and Sam would be… gone. He would be a duffel of belongings in the trunk and a necklace worn around the throat.

His hand came up to clasp the amulet. The metal was cool against his palm. It was the only physical evidence of his brother that he had left, and it was not his. Soon, like the Impala, it would be returned to its rightful owner.

The engine rumbled as he turned the key in the ignition, vibrating the seat slightly. It was the lullaby of his childhood. Countless nights he had fallen asleep stretched out on the back seat as a child, with the rumble and the sounds of Led Zeppelin or another of his father’s cassettes lulling him to sleep. He had once thought of the car as his home, but that was before. After his brother was taken, he realized home wasn’t a car or even a house, it was a person. It was Dean. As long as he had his brother beside him, he didn’t need anything else.

His eyes slid to his watch and he saw that it was a little past midnight. He had exactly twenty-four hours left to him, and despite the fact he hadn’t wanted those hours, he would now make use of them. There were things to prepare.

The windscreen was blurred by the misting rain, so he turned on the wipers and pulled out onto the road. There was hardly any traffic, and he made it back to Lincoln around two-am. He expected to see the building in darkness, but there was a light burning through the window.

The bar was small, smaller than the Roadhouse had been, but it was the best Ellen and Jo could do with the paltry insurance payout they’d received. It was strange, how even though they hadn’t advertised that they were back in business, hoping for a more reliable and affluent clientele, that the hunting community had adopted Bill’s Place as its new meeting point. Night after night, the bar was full of men and women, sharing lore on whatever new fugly they’d come across and cleaning weapons. For all her complaints, Sam knew Ellen was happy about it. Her life was a hunter’s life and though she wasn’t active—her daughter Jo had taken up the mantle of hunter for the Harvelle family—she was a part of it still.

He pulled the car to a stop around back and draped himself over the steering wheel for a moment, marshalling himself before he had to deal with whoever was still awake inside.

He thought back to the first time he’d stumbled upon the place. He’d heard rumor that Ellen had set up shop again but he hadn’t known where until he’d stumbled through the saloon doors in hopes of a drink that would anesthetize the dreams for another night. Instead of the drink he had been hoping for, he had been greeted by a relived Ellen who’d thrown her arms around him and half led him half carried him to the backroom. There he had broken down, telling her of what had happened to Dean and how he was fighting to find a way to bring him back. She had consoled and comforted as best she could and when his tears had ceased she’d tucked him up in a warm, comfortable bed, and stayed with him as he’d slept.

That had been a watershed moment in his life. He had been standing at a crossroads, poised between two choices. One path had been to continue as he was, slowly poisoning himself with liquor and spending his nights hunting down crossroads so he could attempt to make deals. The other had been to summon Ruby and finally give her free rein to do as she wished with him. Ruby had come to him, shortly after Dean’s death, with a new meat suit, big talk of revenge, and a way to kill Lilith. It had been a tempting prospect had it not been for the fuel for the revenge. She told him he needed something to fuel his powers and she’d brought him a silver flask. The moment the contents had touched his tongue, he knew what it was and he’d spat it back in her face. She had been trying to dose him with blood, her own blood it transpired. It made sense in a sick kind of way, Azazel’s blood had given him the powers, more blood could only strengthen him, but he couldn’t do it to himself. Instead, he had sent her away, ignoring her portents of doom, and threw himself into his mission to change places with his brother.

It wasn’t until he woke, to see Ellen sitting beside him in a chair, that he’d realized there was a third choice. He could stop shaming his brother by wasting the life he had given his own to return and get on with it. Ellen put him to work in the bar, clearing up after the night before and restocking the shelves. His days were filled with manual labor, and his nights were filled with trying to find the right demon to deal with him. Ellen and Jo didn’t know what he did at night; at least they pretended they didn’t know. They accepted his excuse that he couldn’t stand to be in the bar when it was filled with other hunters, so he took the evenings to drive.

There was a tap on the window, and Sam jerked up from the steering wheel. He opened the door, and Jo’s smiling face peered in. “You gonna spend all night out here?”

He forced a smile and climbed out of the car. “Sorry, Jo, I guess I was lost in thought.”

“Must have been pretty heavy thoughts,” she said. “I heard you pull up five minutes ago.”

He trailed after her as she walked back through the doors. She went behind the bar and fetched two bottles of beer. Sam hadn’t drunk anything more potent that coffee since he came by Bill’s but he figured he had a free pass now. He sat down at a table in the corner and Jo sat opposite him, straddling her chair and resting her chin on the back.

“How’ve you been, Sam?” she asked gently.

Sam shrugged. It was difficult for him to not tell her everything that had happened. He was brimming over with macabre happiness after his success at the crossroads, but the last thing he wanted was for Jo or Ellen to know what he’d done. “Fine.”

She eyed him carefully. “You’re different?”

Sam blinked innocently. “I am?”

“Yeah. There’s something going on.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She stared deep into his eyes, searching for something, some clue as to what had changed him.

“Tell me about your hunt,” Sam said, trying to draw her attention away from him.

For all her good points, Jo was essentially a young girl. She hadn’t been forced by fate and circumstance to grow up much too soon like Sam had. She was untainted by the hunting life. She still saw all the good of it, the people saved and the adrenaline rush, so she was happy to talk about her latest conquest. “It was a water spirit,” she said excitedly. “Up in Maine, at a summer camp. It took two out before I picked up the lead.”

“You stopped it?” Sam asked, knowing what her reaction would be.

“Of course I stopped it. What kind of hunter do you take me for, Winchester?”

Sam smiled, and for the first time in months, he didn’t have to force it completely. He was enthused about Jo’s hunt. She was developing a name for herself in her own right, and it was good to know that there was new blood coming into the game. Sam may be leaving, but Jo could take his place. She would save the lives he couldn’t.

“So, what was the story?” he asked. “Where’d it come from?”

She took a swig of her beer and shook her head. “It was a drowned kid from back in the fifties when the camp started out. Took a lot of wrangling with the camp owners—they didn’t want the publicity—but eventually I heard where the kid was planted. A little salt and lighter fluid did the job.”

“You did good,” Sam said fondly.

She beamed at him. “I’m glad you approve. Now, I’ve got to hit the hay. Mom’s got me working in the morning. I need gas money. There’s a possible werewolf in Maryland and it’s full moon in a couple of weeks.”

Sam nodded and drained his bottle of beer. “Yeah, me too. Things to do tomorrow.”

He left the empty bottles on the table, knowing he would be back in a few hours to clean up, and flicked off the lights. They made their way through the back door that led into the dwelling side of the building in shadowy darkness.

“Sam,” Jo said as she opened the door to her small bedroom, “I’ll figure it out, you know.”

Sam frowned at her. “Figure what out?”

“What’s different.”

Sam tried for an innocently bewildered expression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jo. Get some sleep. Your mom will be banging on our doors early in the morning.”

She nodded and Sam continued down the hall to his bedroom.

Sleep was ready to embrace him as he threw himself down on the bed, and his last cognizant thought as his eyes slid closed was that he hoped she didn’t work it out. She didn’t need to know what was coming.

xXx

Sam was woken by a stinging pain on his cheek and a voice bellowing in his ear. “Up, Winchester!”

He jerked to a sitting position and caught Ellen’s arm automatically as she made to slap him again. “What the hell,” he said drowsily.

“I’ll give you what the hell,” she snarled. “Up, dammit. I’m not having this conversation with you in your shorts.” She turned on her heel and marched out of the room.

Sam untangled himself from the sheets and got to his feet. The cool air of morning pebbled his skin and he grabbed a sweatshirt and pulled it on, followed by jeans and his heavy boots. He had a sinking sensation in his gut that Jo, and therefore Ellen, and worked out what he had done. He was half-tempted to make a run for it out of the back door, but he owed them better than that. They’d done a lot for him, saved his life in a way, and the least he could do was face them now.

He plodded into the small kitchen and saw Ellen leaning up against the counter and Jo sitting at the table. Their eyes followed him as he came in. He knew, without a word being spoken, that they knew. It was something in the way they were looking at him, as if he was already dead. He knew the expression as he had worn it for a year when looking at Dean. It was the expression of pain of knowing someone you loved was on borrowed time and there was nothing you could do about it.

He smiled ruefully. “What gave me away?”

Ellen drew a deep breath, held it for a beat, and then exhaled slowly. When she spoke, it was in a tone of forced calm. “Jo here told me you were different last night. And now I see it for myself. You might be a good actor, Sam, but your eyes give you away. You’re happy, and only one thing can have done that. As Dean isn’t here sitting at the table with us, I’m guessing he’s on his way. You made a damn deal, didn’t you?"

“We’ve been watching you, Sam,” Jo said. “For weeks now. You think we didn’t notice you poring over the maps, searching for crossroads.”

Sam looked down at the floor. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Ellen crossed her arms over her chest. “Because we thought it was okay. We figured if you couldn’t find a demon to deal with you after spending night after night on the road trying, you never would. And now… Dammit Sam!”

Sam was mortified to see that there were tears in Ellen’s eyes when he looked up. He rallied for something to say, but what could he possibly say? He had made a deal, she knew it, so there was no point lying about it. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Ellen sniffled loudly and wiped at her eyes. “Well, first things first. How long did you get?”

“Longer than I deserved.”

She tapped her foot impatiently. “Tell me, Sam!”

“A day,” Sam said softly. “I have till midnight.”

“Dammit.” She seemed to steel herself. “Jo, get on the phone. Call every hunter in my book. I want them all here, now.”

Jo stood and reached for the phone, but Sam caught her arm. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think we’re doing?” Ellen snapped. “We’re saving your sorry ass. We don’t have time to break the deal, so we’ve got to take out the hounds. The more hunters we have here—”

“The more will die!” Sam said angrily. “You can’t fight hellhounds.”

“Well, what do you expect us to do?” Jo asked. “We can’t just let you…”

“You can,” Sam said firmly. “Why do you think I made this deal? I don’t want it broken, because _this_ is the answer.” His features twisted into a beatific smile. “Don’t you understand? Dean’s coming back.”

Ellen covered her eyes with her hand. “And you will be gone. How is that right? I want Dean back as much as you do but—“

“No you don’t!” Sam snapped. “You have no idea what it’s like for me. He is in Hell right now, suffering unimaginable torment, because of me! My brother is gone and it’s all my fault!” He panted in his anger, his every nerve feeling alive and electric as the fury burned through him. Eventually, his pounding heart slowed, and he was able to speak calmly. “I was dead, Ellen. I should be dead now. All I’m doing now is setting the score straight. Imagine if it was Jo, and you could save her. Tell me now that you wouldn’t be doing exactly what I am doing now.”

Ellen seemed to sag as the anger left her. “I can’t. I can’t stop you.”

“Mom?” Jo said in a querulous voice.

“He’s right,” Ellen said. “If it was you, I would do the exact same thing. I love you Joanna Beth, more than anything or anyone in the world, and I would give my life for you in a heartbeat.”

Jo rounded on her mother. “But we can’t let him die!”

“You can,” Sam said. “This is what I want, Jo, what I need.”

Jo stared at him for a long moment and Sam tried to communicate his need with her. It didn’t work. She spun on her heel and raced from the room, slamming the door behind her.

Ellen watched her go and then she stepped closer to Sam. Her hand came up and touched the place she had slapped him. “I’m so sorry, Sam.”

“I’m not,” Sam said. He knew she wasn’t talking about the slap; she was talking about what was to come for him.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

Sam nodded. “There’s plenty.”

xXx

Sam had told the crossroads demon that he didn’t want time, but he had been wrong. If she had summoned the hounds there and then to take him away, he would have been leaving too big a hole for his brother to fill. As it was, a day didn’t seem long enough to get everything done. He had a letter to write, arrangements to be made, and promises to be obtained. The last of which was causing the most problems.

“No, Sam. I can’t stop you doing this, but I can stop you doing it alone.”

“I don’t want you there,” Sam said through gritted teeth. “I will stay close, so you don’t have so much work to do after, but I want you and Jo to stay inside.”

“And why the hell would we do that?” Jo asked, speaking from the doorway. She had been resolutely ignoring Sam since she had stormed from the kitchen that morning, and it was now approaching eleven-thirty.

“Because you don’t know what it’s like, to watch them tearing someone apart while you are stuck there, unable to do a thing to help. I do.” Sam remembered all too well how it had felt to watch Dean being torn apart by the hellhounds, and he wanted to spare Ellen and Jo from that sharing that experience. “I don’t want you seeing that.”

Ellen locked eyes with Sam, and he felt that she was weighing his determination, testing how steely his resolve was. Eventually, she nodded. “We’ll stay inside.”

“Mom!” Jo said stridently.

“We’ll stay inside,” Ellen said, ignoring Jo. “And… after, what do you want us to do then?”

Sam drew a deep breath. “I want a hunter’s funeral. It’s not about the symbology or the honor of the thing; it’s about Dean. If there is nothing left of me, he won’t have a choice about bringing me back. It’ll be over.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Ellen asked.

Sam huffed a laugh. “Why’d you think I’ve done this? I want Dean back and I want to be gone. If we don’t close that window, Dean will spend the rest of his life hunting down crossroads and trying to make deals. He doesn’t need to be distracted by that. There’s important stuff for him to do.”

Ellen nodded slowly, thinking hard. “You’re not wrong there. All the hunters can feel it. Something big is coming, and we’re not nearly ready for it.”

Sam reached to his neck and unlooped the necklace that lay on his chest. “Give this to Dean with my letter.”

“He’s going to be mighty angry,” Ellen said.

“I know, but it’ll be too late for him to do anything about it by then.” Sam checked his watch. Time was moving fast. It was almost time for him to go. He got to his feet and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I guess it’s time for goodbye.”

“I guess it is.” Ellen came forward with her arms open wide. Sam stepped into them and pulled Ellen close against him. “Thank you so much for everything.” He leaned back and looked at Jo. “Both of you. I don’t have words for it, but…”

“We know,” Ellen said in a choked voice.

Sam wanted to hug Jo but when he stepped closer to her, she moved away until her back was pressed against the wall.

“Jo,” Ellen said in a soft, consoling tone.

Sam shook his head. “It’s fine. I should go now anyway. You make sure you keep your promise.”

“I won’t call anyone until you’re gone,” Ellen said. “I promise.” She stared searchingly at him. “Sam, I want you to know, you’re doing a good thing. I won’t call it the right thing, but you’re doing a good thing.”

“Tell Dean that,” he said. “I don’t think he’ll understand otherwise.”

“He won’t understand at all,” Jo said. “It doesn’t matter what we say.”

Sam nodded. “Maybe not. Still…” He raised his hand in farewell and moved to the door. It creaked as he opened it, and the cool night air hit him, making him shudder. He turned back one last time and smiled at Ellen. Tears were streaming down her face, but she smiled in return.

The door clicked closed behind him and all was quiet for a moment until the baying howls of the hounds reached him. He looked down at his watch. It was midnight.

It was time.


	3. Chapter 3

The sun pounded down on Dean’s shoulders as he walked along the road, making him slick with sweat. He caught sight of a gas station at the end of the road, and he breathed a sigh of relief. There would be people there, people that could help him, and water, which he needed more than anything; his throat felt desiccated.

His hopes were dashed when he reached the station though. Despite the fact it was the middle of the day and there was a car parked out front, there was no other sign of people around. There was a closed sign on the door, and when he peered through the grimy window, he saw that the place was empty.

He glanced back down the road to makes sure he really was alone, and then he bunched his shirt around his fist and smashed the window. The glass fell to the floor with soft tinkles as he cleared the frame and reached inside to unlatch the door. Stepping inside, he relished the cool air of the air conditioning for a moment. After the sweltering heat outside, it was a welcomed relief.

His eyes fell onto a cooler in the corner, laden with bottled water, and he crossed the small store in long strides. He pulled open the door and grabbed at a bottle of water. Dropping the cap to the floor, he gulped down the cool liquid, feeling it soothing his throat. When he had drank his fill, he moved over to a stack of newspapers. The date at the top of the _Pontiac Daily Gazette_ read August 18th.

“August,” he murmured. It had been only three months since he was savaged by the hellhounds. How could it only be three months when he could remember years of Hell? Years of torture, and days of… No. He wouldn’t think about that. He had other things to worry about. Like what the hell he was going to do next.

He walked into the small bathroom and cleaned up, washing away the gritty dirt from his face and hands. He stared into the mirror for a moment, absorbing his own features. He expected to see something different in himself, signs of the years that had passed for him, but there was nothing, expect… There was something different about his eyes. There was something new there, a wariness and darkness. He wondered if it was only evident to him or if Sam would see it too.

_Sam!_

The name came to him like a lightning bolt. He had to find Sam. The last time he’d seen him, he’d been facing down Lilith. He could be… Dean shook his head. He couldn’t allow that thought to finish. Sam was fine. He had to be fine.

He fumbled with the keys for the cash register for a moment, and then jerked back as the tray slid open. He snatched up the few notes inside and all the coins and pushed it closed again.

The phone booth smelled musty and slightly bitter, as if someone had used it for a bathroom in the not too distant past and no one had cleared it up properly. Wrinkling his nose, he wedged the receiver under his chin and began to feed coins into the slot. He dialed the number from memory, and held his breath as he waited for it to connect.

What would he say? _‘Hey, Sammy, it’s me, Dean. Guess what, I’m back from the dead!’_

It didn’t matter that he couldn’t think of a thing to say to his brother, as a recorded voice told him the number had been disconnected. Sighing to himself, he hung up and then redialed.

“Yeah?”

There was such infinite relief at hearing Bobby’s voice that Dean felt a lump form in his throat. If Bobby was okay, Sam had to be too. Lilith wouldn’t have left Bobby alive if she’d killed Sam.

He swallowed thickly. “Bobby?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s me.”

“Who’s me?”

“Dean.”

The only response Dean got was the dial tone again. Bobby had hung up on him. He guessed it was too much to hope that Bobby would have recognized his voice.

He dialed again and Bobby’s voice answered with poorly suppressed anger in his tone. “Who is this?”

“Bobby, listen to me,” Dean said.

“This ain't funny. Call again, I'll kill ya.”

Again, Dean heard the dial tone. He didn’t bother calling again. Bobby likely wouldn’t answer, and even if he did, Dean would be no more able to persuade him of the truth than he had been on the first two tries.

He stepped out of the booth and looked at his one last hope, an ugly ass Mercury Monterey. Musing on the pure bitchiness of fate, he walked and jimmied the lock. It was going to be a long and embarrassing ride to South Dakota.

xXx

As Dean drove through the wrought iron gate declaring _Singer’s Salvage Yard_ he felt something settle deep within him. He had known since he clawed his way out of his own grave that he was back in the physical sense, but now he was _really_ back. Soon, he would see Bobby and Sam. He would be home.

He expected to see the Impala parked beside Bobby’s Chevelle in the yard, but it wasn’t there. That wasn’t the worst thing. Bobby would know where Sam was and they could go to him together.

He pulled the car to a stop and climbed out, relishing the thud of the door as it closed. He wouldn’t be driving that thing again in this life. With light footsteps, he crossed the yard and climbed the steps to the house. He raised his hands and knocked then stepped back, waiting for Bobby to come.

He heard the bolts disengage and he wondered when Bobby had got so tight about security. Then the door swung open, and Dean ceased to care about Bobby’s security plans, because he was there. He looked the same as he ever did, with his grubby baseball cap and layered shirts.

Bobby’s mouth was slack as he stared at Dean. He looked stunned.

“Surprise,” Dean said with a small smile.

Bobby took a step back. “I don’t…”

“Yeah, me neither.” Dean crossed the threshold into the house. “But here I am.”

Something like resolve settled over Bobby and a split second later, he was brandishing a knife at Dean. He slashed it through the air and Dean jumped back and then gripped Bobby’s wrist. Bobby broke his grip and landed a backhanded punch on Dean’s face, sending him stumbling back.  

“Bobby! It’s me!” Dean said, holding up his hands.

“My ass!” Bobby came at him again, holding the knife up.

Dean grabbed a chair and placed it between them. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait! Your name is Robert Steven Singer. You became a hunter after your wife got possessed, and you're about the closest thing I have to a father. Bobby. It's me!”

Bobby shoved the chair away and came at Dean slowly. Dean straightened, wondering whether another punch was coming at him. Bobby reached out and placed a hand on Dean’s arm, as if not sure whether what he was seeing was real or not. Dean smiled ruefully, thinking he had got through to Bobby, when Bobby slashed at him with the knife again. Dean spun him and pulled the knife from Bobby’s grip.

“I’m not a shapeshifter!” he said.

Bobby struggled in his grip. “Then you're a Revenant!”

Dean shoved Bobby away and held the knife up between them. “Alright. If I was either, could I do this with a silver knife?” He rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and pressed the blade down and through his skin. Blood welled in the wound and dripped down his arm.

“Dean?” Bobby said hopefully.

Dean grimaced. “That's what I've been trying to tell you.”

Bobby came forward and threw his arms around Dean, pulling him into a tight hug. Dean returned his embrace with enthusiasm, relishing the contact.

After a long moment, Bobby released Dean and held him at arm’s length. “It's... It's good to see you, boy. “

Dean smiled. “Yeah, you too.”

“But... how did you bust out?”

“I don't know. I just woke up in a pine box...” His words were cut off as Bobby emptied a bottle of holy water into his face. It dripped down his face and he spat a mouthful onto the floor.

“I'm not a demon either, you know. “

Bobby shrugged. “Sorry. Can't be too careful.” He handed Dean a towel,

Bobby made for the study and Dean followed, mopping the water from his face.

“So, you’re back,” Bobby said. “That don't make a lick of sense. “

“Yeah. Yeah, you're preaching to the choir.”

Bobby frowned. “Dean, your chest was ribbons, your insides were slop. And you've been buried _three_ _months_. Even if you could slip out of Hell and back into your meat suit —“

“I know, I should look like a Thriller video reject.“

“What do you remember?”

Dean winced as he though back through the months to what had happened to him. “Not much. I remember I was a Hellhound's chew toy,” he smirked, “and then... lights out. Then I come to six feet under, that was it. Sam's number's not working. He's, uh... he's not...” He hated to ask the question, but Bobby hadn’t mentioned Sam yet, and that didn’t sit well with him.

“Oh, he's alive. As far as I know.“

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, absorbing the moment of relief. His brother was alive. “Good.... Wait, what do you mean, as far as you know?”

“I haven't talked to him for months,” Bobby admitted.

Dean’s eyebrows rose. “You're kidding; you just let him go off by himself?”

Bobby sighed heavily and sat down at his desk. “He was dead set on it.”

“Bobby, you should've been looking after him.”

“I tried,” Bobby said defensively. “These last months haven't been exactly easy, you know. For him or me. We had to bury you.” Something passed over Bobby face as he said it. Some dark memory, perhaps the memory of that night.

“Why did you bury me, anyway?” Dean asked, hoping to wash that look from Bobby’s face. It worked; Bobby scowled.

“I wanted you salted and burned. Usual drill. But Sam wouldn't have it.”

Dean thought of how bad things could have been had he not had a body to come back to. “Well, I'm glad he won that one.”

Bobby looked at him and the darkness in his expression had returned. “He said you'd need a body when he got you back home somehow. That's about all he said.”

“ What do you mean?”

“He was quiet. Real quiet. And then he just took off. Wouldn't return my calls. I tried to find him, but he didn't want to be found.”

Dean sighed. Bobby wouldn’t have been able to find Sam if he didn’t want to be found, but he didn’t have Dean’s advantages. He knew about his brother, including his aliases, so finding him would be a piece of cake. And when he found him, he would hug him and punch him in that order. Hug him because damn it would be good to see him again and punch him for making Bobby worry.

xXx

After a few minutes talking to the helpful guy at _Ace Mobile,_ Dean crossed to the laptop on the desk. “Sam’s in…” he pressed a few keys, “Lincoln, Nebraska.”

“Lincoln?” Bobby asked and then cursed. “Dammit, Ellen.”

“What’s Ellen done?” Dean hadn’t heard word of Ellen or Jo since the Devil’s Gate opened. He and Sam had, by unspoken agreement, steered clear of them in the year before his death. Dean’s own reasoning was simple. He was on his way out and the more people he bonded with before that happened, the more that would suffer after.

Bobby tugged off his cap and dropped it onto the desk. Running his hands through his graying hair, he spoke through gritted teeth. “Her and Jo have set up shop just outside of Lincoln. Some podunk town called River Crossing.”

“You think Sammy’s with her?”

“I think so. The damn woman has been lying to me for weeks. I told you I’ve been trying to find him. She was one of the first people I called.”

“Why’d you think she lied?”

Bobby shrugged. “No idea, but I’m sure as hell gonna find out.”

Despite Bobby’s pique, Dean was pleased to have found Sam, especially in the company of friends. He had worried Sam would strike off alone after he was gone, and Sam wasn’t made for the solitary life. He needed people around him to keep him on the up and up. He cracked his knuckles. “Let’s get gone then. Sooner we find Sammy, the better.”

Bobby nodded and Dean saw a slight smile curve his lips. For all his anger towards Ellen, Dean knew he was as happy about seeing Sam again as he was.

Dean had no clean clothes at Bobby’s, as Sam had apparently taken his duffel in the Impala when he’d left Bobby’s the last time, so he had to stay in his dusty and holy water doused clothes as he made his way out to the car. He wished it could have been the Impala he was climbing into, but that was still with Sam. Consoling himself with the fact he would be reunited with his baby soon, he settled in the passenger seat of the Chevelle and tapped his feet as he waited for Bobby to lock up the house.

After what seemed like hours, Bobby got in behind the steering wheel and he gunned the engine to life. With a spurt of dust, they were on the road, heading to Nebraska and Sam.

xXx

The worst part was the quiet. The only noise that broke the night was the clock that ticked over the bar. They hadn’t opened up that day, and after the first few people banged on the door and left unanswered, word seemed to spread that Bill’s wasn’t open for business, so there was no distraction from the wait.

As the clock struck twelve, the howling started and Jo shuddered.

“It’s okay, honey,” Ellen said. “It’s going to be okay.”

Jo rounded on her mother, a dozen insults and accusations on the tip of her tongue, but when she caught sight of Ellen’s tear streaked face the words died. Ellen was doing her job as a mother, trying to make this easier for Jo. There was no making it easier though. At that very moment, the Hellhounds were coming for Sam, and there was nothing they could do to save him. He didn’t want to be saved.

Tears spilled down Jo’s cheeks and she folded into a chair, burying her face in her hands. Ellen crossed the room and knelt down in front of her. Enclosing Jo in her arms, she murmured soothing words through her own tears.

Outside, there was a howl, different to the baying of the hounds. It was the sound of a human’s suffering. It made Jo cry harder than ever. Sam was making that sound. Sam who’d sat down at the dinner table with her night after night, fighting through his pain to make conversation with her, asking about her hunts and her life, as if it could have any value to him after all he’d lost. It was Sam, her friend.

The howl cut off abruptly, and Jo knew it was over. He was gone. She tried to pull out of her mother’s embrace, but Ellen clung to her harder.

“Mom?”

“It’s okay, honey,” she crooned. “He’s okay.”

But he wasn’t okay. That was the problem. He was gone.

The clock above the stove clicked on, and still Jo remained trapped in her mother’s arms. She knew that Ellen needed her to cling to, so she didn’t pull away. She just leaned into her mother’s touch and inhaled the scent of home.

Eventually, Ellen released Jo and got to her feet. Wiping a hand over her face, sweeping away the tear tracks, she took a deep breath and sniffed. “We’ve got work to do,” she said vaguely, as if talking to herself.

She moved to the door and opened it slowly, as if afraid the hound was still there, waiting for another soul to make itself known so it could sate its need for violence. Nothing moved outside though, all was silent and still, even the cicadas had fallen quiet in the face of tragedy. Jo followed her mother outside and stopped dead in her tracks.

He hadn’t gone far, no more than ten feet from the building. He lay on the ground, perfectly still. The white shirt he had been wearing was slashed and torn by the hound’s claws and dark blood stood out starkly in the dim light cast from the kitchen window. His eyes were open and staring, but his face was peaceful. Despite the agony that his end must have been, Jo thought he looked happy. As if he knew the pain was worth it.

Ellen squatted beside him and laid a hand on his cheek. “Oh, Sam,” she said softly.

Jo wanted to run inside and hide from the scene, but she knew she couldn’t. Her mother needed her to be strong now, as her innate strength seemed to have deserted her.

“We need to get him inside,” Jo said. “Clean him up. Dean will be here sooner or later, and he shouldn’t have to see him like this.” Ellen nodded, still resting one hand on Sam’s cheek. “C’mon, Mom, help me.”

Jo moved to Sam’s head, and through she felt sick to her stomach with what she had to do, she hooked her arms under Sam’s and lifted him from the dirty ground. Ellen moved to his feet, and between them, they managed to get him up and through the kitchen into the room he’d taken as his own. There was nothing dignified in the way they heaved him onto the bed, and the bedsprings shrieked as his weight fell on them.

Jo moved to the closet and swung open the doors but there was nothing inside but a ratty looking canvas holdall. She pulled it out and opened it to find a stash of maps with Sharpie inked crosses dotted over it. Examining it, she saw they all fell on crossroads. That must be how Sam had kept track of the demons he had tried. He moved the maps to one side and pulled out a clean shirt and pair of jeans for Sam.

As she laid them down on the end of the bed and started to unbutton Sam’s ragged shirt, Ellen seemed to snap out of the haze she had been lost in. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“We’ve got to clean him up, Mom,” Jo said.

Ellen nodded. “I’ll do it.”

“But…”

“There are many things in life that I want you to experience, Joanna Beth, but this isn’t one of them. You go fetch me some water and a washcloth and I will do the rest.”

A small, cowardly part of Jo was relieved to be ordered away. As much as she wanted Sam to be cleaned up and cared for, she didn’t want to see it happen. She didn’t want to look at the ragged wounds the Hellhound had left for a minute longer that was necessary. She hurried into the bathroom and filled a bowl with warm water.

Ellen was waiting for her at the door and she took the bowl and washcloth wordlessly. “You go fix us a drink,” she said. “I’ll be right out.”

She waited as her mother clicked the door closed behind her and then she went into the kitchen. Hunters weren’t the most discerning of palates for liquor; the rule seemed to be if it got you loaded, it was okay, so Ellen and Jo never bothered to stock the shelves with decent bottles, but for as long as Jo could remember, Ellen had kept a bottle of Jack Daniels in the kitchen cupboard. It had been her father’s favorite drink, and Jo remembered him sipping a glass on the nights he returned triumphant from a hunt. Despite the fact Bill Harvelle had been dead since ’95, Ellen had kept his drink in, as if one day he would return and need it. They both needed it now.

Jo poured them each a glass and sat at the table with her in front of her, waiting for her mother. She could hear Ellen’s murmuring voice through the closed door, and she guessed she was talking to Sam as she cleaned him up. With a choked sob, Jo buried her face in her hands. Her mother was talking but Sam wasn’t there to listen. He was dead, gone. He could never return, because once Ellen was done and Sam was cleaned up, they would have to wrap his body and burn him. She didn’t think she could bear to watch him go up in flames.

The door clicked open and Ellen came slowly into the kitchen. She took a seat opposite Jo and picked up her glass. “To Sam.”

Jo looked into her mother’s face and saw the grief in the lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She looked tired and old, as if the pain of what had happened was weighing her down like a physical thing.

She raised her glass. “To Sam.”

There was a moment of silence as they sipped at their drinks and then the rumble of an approaching engine reached them.

Jo looked up at the clock. It was one-am. Dean had missed Sam by only an hour.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean threw open the car door before Bobby had even finished pulling up at the bar.

“Baby! I missed you!” he hollered, running a hand over the smooth chrome of the Impala’s hood. It looked like Sam had been keeping up his end on the bargain by taking care of her. She’d been waxed recently, and the dust that swirled around hadn’t found a home on her paintwork.

“You two need a moment alone?” Bobby asked as he climbed from the Chevelle.

Dean grinned. “We’re just getting reacquainted, Bobby.”

“So I see. Here I was thinking we’d driven all this way so you could see your brother again.”

Dean knew Bobby was still pissed at Ellen for leaving him out of the loop where Sam was concerned, so he didn’t take his grouchiness to heart. Besides, Bobby had a point. As awesome as it was to see his baby again, it would be nothing compared to seeing his brother.

He looked up at the building they’d come to. It was largely wooden in structure—despite the fiery fate of the Roadhouse—and a large sign declared the name as _Bill’s._ Though it was late and there were no other cars around other than the Chevelle, Impala and a crapped out Ford, the lights were burning in the windows, as if there was a party happening inside.

If there wasn’t already, there would be soon, Dean thought. He was back from the pit, his brother was here, there was a lot to celebrate.

Bobby straightened his cap and made towards the door and Dean followed. As Bobby lifted his hand to pound on the door—he was still obviously pissed—the lock disengaged and the door opened. Dean grinned as he saw Jo and then his smile faded as she stepped into the light and he caught sight of her face. There were tear tracks drying on her face, and her mouth was twisted with regret. What worried Dean the most was the fact that, though she surely knew the story of what had happened to him, she showed no shock at seeing him returned from the dead. Which meant she was expecting him.

“You okay, Jo?” Bobby asked.

She shook her head and stepped back so they could come inside. Dean entered and looked around the bar. It was brightly lit but empty and clean. It didn’t look like they’d been open for business that day. Ellen stood at the opposite end of the room and she looked even more wrecked than Jo.

Dean wasn’t stupid. He didn’t have Sam’s LSAT scores, but he was plenty smart, and best of all, he could read people. He knew something big had happened and he had a sick tightening sensation in his gut that it was something to do with Sam. Knowledge was supposed to be power, but he didn’t feel powerful in that moment; he felt weakened and brought low by his suspicions.

“Ellen, what’s happened?” Bobby asked.

Dean wanted him to retract the question. He didn’t want to know the answer. He didn’t want his suspicions confirmed. Something had happened to Sam, but if no one spoke it, it wasn’t real. He could pretend his brother was just beyond that door waiting for him. They would hug and Dean would ream Sam out for making him worry, but they would be together and they would both be okay.

Ellen came forward until she was standing in front of Dean and she reached out to touch him. “Dean, I’m so…”

Dean jerked away from her, shaking his head. He didn’t want to hear what she had to say. He just wanted to see Sam. He put on a beaming smile. “So, where is he?”

Ellen swallowed thickly. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

“No!” Bobby’s exclamation was breathy and quiet, but it cut through Dean like a knife.

He shook his head. This was all a misunderstanding. Sam was fine. He would be right out. He was just taking a minute. You needed a minute when your brother came back from the dead; Dean knew that for a fact. He would be lurking just behind that door now, maybe a little wet around the eyes, taking time to compose himself before he saw Dean.

“What happened?” Bobby asked.

“He made a deal,” Jo said.

Dean felt something heavy slide into his gut. It was the weight of realization. Sam had made a deal. _That_ was how he’d been brought back. His stupid brother had made a deal. No wonder he was hiding behind the door. He didn’t want to face Dean.

“It’s okay,” Dean said, speaking loudly so Sam could hear him too. “Well take care of it.”

Ellen looked at him sympathetically and shook her head. “It’s too late, Dean.”

“’Course it’s not. We’ll fix it. _I’ll_ fix it. Won’t be the first time I’ve had to clean up one of Sam’s messes.” He looked to the door, waiting for his brother to step into the room, with his shaggy hair and what was sure to be a repentant expression. He would know he was in trouble, but he would also know Dean would fix it. That was his job. He looked from Jo to Ellen, a smile across his face. “Where is he anyway?”

Bobby sniffed noisily and Dean’s gaze snapped to him. There was wetness in Bobby’s eyes and his expression was haunted. “Dean…”

“No.” Dean shook his head. “He’s okay, right, Ellen? He’s fine. He’s just scared I’m gonna kick his ass.”

“I’m so sorry, Dean,” Ellen said gently.

“No!” Dean shook his head jerkily. He didn’t want to hear her apologies; he just wanted his brother to show himself to take his ass kicking like a man. “You’re wrong. He’s fine.”

Ellen blinked and a tear slid down her cheek. “They came for him at midnight.”

It was the tear that did it. There was no reason why that should have reached him when nothing else could have, but it did.

The realization that Sam was gone hit him like a wrecking ball. He’d known it from the second he saw Jo’s tears that it was because Sam was gone, but his mind refused to accept it. He groaned and bowed at the waist.

Sam gone. Sam dead. It was too much to take in.

Someone was talking to him and tugging on his arm. He allowed himself to be led to a chair. He sat with someone’s shaking hand on his shoulder and someone else kneeling in front of him, cupping his face in their warm palms. He looked up into Jo’s deep brown eyes and his heart broke, because he saw the truth there. Her eyes were no longer alight with the excitement of life. She had seen and done things since he last saw her that had changed her. And those things had been Sam.

“What happened?” he asked in a hoarse voice. It seemed all power in him had been stolen by the tragedy of his loss.

“He made a deal,” Ellen said. “Last night.”

Only a night ago. When Dean had woken, scared out of his mind, in a pine box in the ground, Sam had probably been walking away from the crossroads. When Dean had been clawing his way out of the ground, lungs burning and heart sure that he was going to die again in the attempt to get free, Sam had been driving. The long hours Dean had spent walking through the wilderness, looking for a road to follow, Sam had been… What? What had Sam done with his last day on Earth if it hadn’t been to look for his brother? He would have known where to find him. He would have known where Dean would have gone. Why hadn’t he been waiting at Bobby’s for him?

“Why?”

He wasn’t aware that he’d asked the question until Ellen answered him. “Because he wanted to save you. After everything you’d done for him, he had to save you.”

Dean bowed his head and a tear slipped down his cheek. Sam had saved him, but he’d never wanted to be saved like this.

“Where…” Bobby’s voice was unsteady and he cleared his throat roughly. “Where is he now?”

Dean looked up. Until that moment he had been at a loss as to what he had to do next. Now, he knew. He had to see his brother.

“He’s in his room,” Jo said softly. “I can show you.”

Dean got to unsteady feet and followed Jo through the door that he had been convinced had hidden his brother. He was right in a way. Sam was behind it but not in the way he needed him to be. They came out in a long hall. There were three closed doors leading off it and an open door at the end that led into what looked like a kitchen. Jo came to a door in the middle and she eased it open.

Dean took a deep, hitching breath as it creaked open. He knew what he was going to see behind there, and he wasn’t sure he could bear to see it again. It felt like a lifetime ago that Sam had breathed what would have been his last breath in a dark, muddy road in Cold Oak. Dean had held him then as the life bled out of him and then he had carried him back to a cabin in the middle of nowhere. There, he had cleaned up his brother, putting him in clean clothes, and he’d laid him out on the bed. Would he have to carry out that heart-wrenching task again? Would he have to clean and thread Sam’s unresisting arms into a clean shirt, chosen because it looked the most comfortable when he was beyond comfort or discomfort, dressing him in what he would wear for the rest of time?

Jo let the door open only a couple of inches and then she stepped back. “Do you want me to…?” She let the question trail off.

Dean shook his head. He wanted to be alone with his brother. That was the way it always was for them. People came and went, like Bobby, Ellen and Jo, but really, they only had each other. Now, Dean had no one. He was alone in the world.

Jo touched his arm and then turned and left him alone.

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, summoning strength, and then stepped inside the room. Sam was laid out on the bed. A blanket had been pulled up to his chin, and with a tightening in his guts, Dean realized that was there to hide the marks of his violent end. If not for the pallor of his skin and the fact his chest was unmoving, it would be possible to believe Sam was sleeping. Someone had cleaned him up already. Dean wasn’t sure whether or not that was a good thing. In a way, it was good, as it saved him from needing to tend to his brother’s corpse again, but on the other hand, it denied him the chance to fulfill his brother’s last needs.

“Dammit, Sammy,” he said softly. “Why’d you have to do this?”

He dropped to his knees beside the bed and laid a hand on Sam’s arm. He looked into Sam’s face and he noticed the expression for the first time. He’d heard people talk about how dead people looked peaceful or happy, and he’d mainly put it aside as bullshit people said to make themselves feel better. Sam didn’t look peaceful to him. He looked satisfied. His features had frozen in the expression of satisfaction Sam must have worn as he’d died. That meant, while he was in unbearable agony, drawing his last breaths, he had been happy with what was happening. No, happy was the wrong word; he’d been satisfied.

Tears filled his eyes as he stared at Sam and slid down his cheeks. He made no effort to halt their flow. There was no one to see him, and even if there were, who would think less of him for crying for his loss?

He stayed there on his knees, taking time with his brother, for a long while, long past the point at which his knees stopped protesting against the contact with the hard floor. It seemed absurd that he had aches and pains now, when his heart was already in overwhelming agony. He heard the others talking from the bar, but he paid no attention to them until he heard his name mentioned.

“You think Dean’s ready for it, Mom?”

There was a heavy sigh. “I don’t think he’ll ever be ready.”

Dean pushed himself to his feet and, casting his brother a look of regret, he plodded into the bar. “Ready for what?” he asked.

Jo started as she caught sight of him and she chewed her lip, looking thoughtful.

“Ready for this,” Ellen said, holding out a white envelope.

Dean took it and turned it over in his hands. It was addressed in Sam’s neat hand to him. Without looking at anyone, he turned and walked back to Sam’s bedroom. There was a chair beside the bed, and he sank down onto it. He didn’t tear into the envelope; he opened it carefully as if avoiding its injury. This was his brother’s last gift, and it deserved to be treated with care. Pulling out the single sheet of paper inside, he wiped at his eyes and began to read.

_Dean,_

_I don’t know how to start this letter. I don’t know how to put into words all that needs to be said._

_If you’re reading this, you have found Bill’s and you know what happened. I am gone, and this time, there’s no coming back. The thought of you standing in the bar, reading this letter, makes me equally happy and sad. I am happy because it means it worked, and I saved you, but it also means I am not there with you._

_I know you’re probably angry, and I’m sure Bobby is too. Tell him I'm sorry that I couldn’t spend these past few months with him, but he would have stopped me doing what’s right. Don’t be angry at Ellen and Jo. For their part, they never knew I would succeed. I got lucky._

_If I worked things out well enough, it should take you a few days for you to find Ellen, and I will be salted and burned and beyond your reach to retrieve. Don’t be angry with her. I made it this way for a reason. I didn’t want my body to tempt you to try to save me. I can’t be saved, Dean, not this time. This time I was the one that did the saving. With this deal, I have finally made a choice Dad can be proud of._

_Now for the mushy stuff that’s going to make you groan. I love you, Dean. I always have, even when I wasn’t there to show it. I am grateful for everything you ever did for me. No one knows what you had to give up for me better than I do. You won’t have to give up anything else._

_Go on. Live your life. Hunt and save people or rest and save yourself. Whatever you do, make sure it makes you happy. Life’s too long to be miserable, Dean._

_Your brother,_

_Sam._

Dean folded the letter carefully and put it back inside the envelope. Tucking it inside his pocket, he looked down at his brother. “Didn’t work out quite how you planned, did it Sammy?”

One part of his brother’s great plan had failed. He wasn’t supposed to be here for a few days yet. Sam had underestimated Dean’s ability to track him down. Sam’s body was not yet salted and burned, and Dean was going to sure it stayed that way. They wouldn’t even need to bury him. He was going to find himself a crossroads and make a deal. Sam would be back where he belonged and Dean would be back in the pit, where _he_ belonged. He had no place in the world, not without his brother. Sam was the good one, the one that deserved life. Dean was tainted now. He had been since the day he accepted Alastair’s offer and switched from tortured to torturer.

Dean took one last look at his brother, absorbing the sight of him, as he would never see him again, and walked back into the bar.

Bobby, Ellen and Jo were seated around a table, each with a glass of whiskey in front of them. As Dean came in, they looked up. Bobby got to his feet and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Leave me alone, Bobby,” Dean said before Bobby had even opened his mouth to speak. He could see the words brimming in Bobby’s eyes and he didn’t want to hear it.

“I will not,” Bobby said firmly.

If Dean wasn’t so lost in his grief, he would have been amused to see the resolve in Bobby’s eyes. As if what Bobby thought mattered to him now. “I’m asking you to do something for me, Bobby. Let me be.”

“I will not,” Bobby said again. “I’m done listening to what you Winchesters want from me. I left you alone before and you went and made a deal. I left your brother alone and he did the same damn thing. I’m not making the same mistake again. There’s a boy in there, _dead_ ”—his voice broke—“because I gave him what he wanted—space. I won’t see it happen again.”

“Then you know why I’m asking,” Dean said. “I want you, all of you, to leave me alone so I can make this right.” He pointed at the door. “My brother is lying there, dead. His soul is in Hell suffering, all because of me. If you think I’m going to leave him to suffer—“

Dean’s words cut off as the bar door swung open and bounced off the wall. Dean spun on his heel and saw an unfamiliar woman standing in the doorway. She was young, with long, dark hair and russet skin. She would have been beautiful if not for her crimson eyes.

“Round and round the Winchesters go. Where they will stop, no one knows.” She laughed. “Well, no one but me.”

Dean reached back into his pocket for a weapon then realized he wasn’t packing his usual armory. Since being sprung from Hell and finding his brother dead, he hadn’t had a chance to rearm himself. Ruby’s knife was who-knew-where and Dean was without even a bottle of holy water to defend himself.

Ellen and Jo had jumped to their feet at the demon’s arrival, but as far as Dean knew, they were just as unarmed as he and Bobby were.

“What do you want?” Bobby growled.

She tapped a manicured finger against her chin. “You know, it’s so strange to be asked that question. Usually it’s mine to ask. Now, let’s all sit down and have a little chat.” She flung her arms out and Jo, Ellen and Bobby were forced into the chairs they had vacated. Dean was left alone standing in the middle of the room.

“Well, well, Dean Winchester.” She walked in a circle around him, examining him like a horse dealer brought a new nag. “You should be on bended knee, thanking me right now.”

“Yeah?” Dean said with bravado. “And why’s that?”

“Because it is thanks to me that you are free.”

Realization settled over Dean like a too tight cloak. “You made the deal with Sammy.” His hands fisted at his sides.

She came to a stop in front of him and she smiled. “I did. It was the best deal of my life.”

Dean lunged at her with his hands outstretched. He didn’t care that it was a pointless attempt or that the demon was possessing some poor young girl, he was going to choke the life out of the demon or die trying.

With a lazy wave of her arm, the demon sent Dean flying back until he hit the wall, hard. His eyes blurred for a second and he felt a sickening pain in the back of his head, but all he cared about was the demon striding towards him. She looked supremely satisfied by what she had said so far, and judging from the wide curve to her lips, she had more to say.

“Now, Winchester, let’s talk this through.”

“Leave him alone,” Bobby said through gritted teeth. He was struggling to right himself, but the demon had him held fast.

“Wait your turn!” the demon snapped, turning on Bobby. “I’ll get to you in a minute.” She straightened the folds of her short skirt, and smiled at Dean. “So, widdle Deany Winchester wants to make another deal. Hard luck, sweetheart. We’re all sworn off making deals with Winchesters now. Most of us were before, but Sam had just the right sob story to pluck at my heartstrings. Poor Sammy, alone in the world after his big brother took the fall for him, trapped in a world that he didn’t want anymore. You can’t imagine how his pain called to me. And his tears…” She sighed. “I had to do what I could to help him.”

Dean didn’t want to hear about Sam’s pain, not from a demon. He knew it must have been bad for his brother after he’d died, but he refused to believe he’d gone crying to a demon. He was too strong for that.

“If you’re sworn off making deals with Winchesters, why did you deal with Sam?” Ellen asked. “He searched for months. What made you different?”

The demon tilted her head to the side. “See, she asks the right questions. You want to stay close to this one, Dean. She’ll be able to take care of you now little brother’s gone.” She looked across at Ellen. “The answer to your question is simple. It’s a family business. I owed the Winchesters, and when Sammy came to me, I was only too happy to make a deal. I want them to suffer.”

“What did we ever do to you?” Dean asked. “Other than dedicate our lives to ending your kind, of course.”

“It’s a _family_ thing, Dean,” the demon said. “You destroyed my family, therefore I destroy yours.” When she saw that Dean was still clueless, she went on. “Azazel. Yellow-Eyes. My father. You killed him.”

“Meg?”

The demon snarled. “Of course that’s the only one of us you know. My damned sister. She got the glory while I—“

“Got the hand-me-downs and chores,” Bobby said. “Sorry for ya, really.”

The demon closed her eyes for a moment, seeming to summon patience. “Meg was the weapon my father needed to find and trap Sam. I was the family provider. I kept the fires of Hell stocked with souls. We all had our roles to play.”

“And I killed your pa,” Dean said. “I’d say sorry, but I think we’d both know I wouldn’t mean it.”

She sneered. “And I killed your brother. I’d say I'm sorry too, but I couldn’t keep a straight face doing it. Truth is, your brother was the best deal I ever made, even though it’s going to be the end of me. I got my revenge. Sammy is burning already, and you have to go on alone. It’s perfect. My revenge is finally complete.”

“You say this is going to end you?” Bobby said thoughtfully.

She nodded. “I broke the rules. None of us were to deal with a Winchester. I am officially a wanted woman. I can almost hear the hounds calling me home. One more thing before I go,” She turned to face Dean. “I can tell what’s going on behind that Cro-Magnon brow of yours. You’re thinking you can make a deal to get Sammy back and you can return to the rack. You’re wrong. I am the last of my family in the business of making deals. The others toe the line.”

Dean shook his head. It didn’t matter what this abomination said, he was going to get his brother back where he belonged.

The demon shrugged. “Fine, don’t believe me. You’ll see soon enough anyway. Now, I have to go. There are a couple of Hellhounds baying for my blood, and knowing my luck, they’ll have followed the stench of your gas-guzzler right back here like I did. Dean, enjoy your life, I’m hoping it’s a long one. The rest of you”—she looked into Bobby’s eyes—“make sure he buries the corpse before it starts stinking up the place.” That said, she sauntered out of the door.

The second Dean was released from his position pinned against the wall, he crossed the room to the door. He could see no sign of the demon anywhere, but he thought in the far distance, he could hear a hound baying at the moon.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean was still standing in the open doorway when Ellen came up behind him and laid her hand on his shoulder. His muscles bunched at the contact. He didn’t want to be touched. She seemed to understand, as she pulled her hand away slowly.

“I have some things for you,” she said.

Dean turned his attention from the rolling road outside to her. “You do.”

She put a hand in her pocket and pulled out a set of keys and a necklace. He recognized both immediately as they had been part of his life for too many years to count.

“Sam wanted you to have these back,” she said gently. “He told me… before.”

Dean nodded and fought back the tears that wanted to spill down his cheeks. “Thanks, Ellen. Not just for this. For everything. For taking Sammy in and…”

She blinked and a tear rolled down her face. “He was family, just like you.”

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, making sure that his emotions were under control, and then he nodded. “Thanks.”

He looped the amulet around his neck and felt its familiar weight as it rested against his chest. It felt good to have it back, even if it was only for a little while. He tossed his keys from one hand to the other and then stuffed them in his pocket. He was about to make his exit when Bobby cleared his throat loudly.

Dean looked up at him, trying for an innocent expression. Bobby knew exactly what he was thinking, and Dean didn’t want to get into an argument about his immediate plans. Unfortunately for Dean, Bobby didn’t seem to get the message.

“There’s things we need to talk about,” Bobby said. “Things we need to do.”

Dean nodded. “I know, and I know what you’re going to say, but we’re not doing that. I’m not burning him.”

“It’s what he wanted, Dean,” Ellen said gently. “He made me promise.”

“You’re just going to have to break that promise,” Dean said. “No one is touching Sammy till I get back.”

Bobby crossed his arms over his chest. “Back from where exactly?”

“You know where I’m going and what I am going to do.” There was no need for the pretence. They all knew what had to happen next; Dean was going to save Sam.

“I know what you _think_ you’re going to do,” Bobby growled. “I also know you were listening when that demon bitch told you there were no more deals for Winchesters.”

“What does she know?” Dean forced a laugh. “Me and Sammy have been breaking the rules for years.”

“Maybe this is one rule you shouldn’t go breaking.”

Dean rounded on Bobby. “You want him dead!”

Bobby’s hands fisted at his sides and he breathed hard through his nose. “You’re hurting, I get that, but if you _dare_ to say something like that ever again, I will take a tire iron to your thick skull. That boy in there”—he pointed at the door leading to the hall, leading to Sam—“is _my_ boy. You both are. He’s gone, and that there just about tears my heart out, but you’re alive, and for that I am thankful. Your brother did a good thing, saving you, and I'm not going to let you piss all over his corpse by trying to take that away from him now.”

“He’s not just dead, Bobby. He’s in _Hell!_ ” Dean said emphatically. “You don’t know what it’s like there; the heat, the blood, the pain and the fury. I’m not leaving him.”

Jo sniffed quietly and Dean saw that tears were streaming down her cheeks. Dean’s anger left him in a rush. He wasn’t the only person hurting there, they all cared about Sam, but he was hurting the most. It was his little brother that had gone, and it was down to him to bring him back.

“I have to do it,” he said softly.

Bobby threw his arms up. “It’s not going to work, Dean! You can go to that demon, and you can beg and plead and make yourself its bitch, but it won’t bring him back!”

Dean smiled sadly. “The least I can do is try.”

He walked out of the open door and to the Impala. The thought that he had been pleased to see it when he’d arrived seemed laughable. It was just a hunk of metal to him now, a means to an end. It would get him to a crossroads and that would do. After that… he didn’t care what happened.

xXx

Dean didn’t know the Lincoln area well, and he had even less knowledge of the many back roads that sprawled out around the city. He drove for an hour before he came to a likely looking spot. He pulled the car over and climbed out. The night was still and quiet, and he felt a shiver pass up his spine as he looked up and down the dark road.

He saw a plant at the side of the road, and he squatted down to examine it. Even in the darkness, it was recognizable as yarrow. That gave him hope. It had been growing at the last two crossroads he’d visited, the time they were trying to save the patrons of Lloyd’s bar and the time he’d made his own deal to save Sam. Both times, there had been an active demon working the area.

He opened the trunk and sorted through the weapons, looking for what he needed. He was able to hodge-podge together a suitable offering for the demon. He scuffed at the dirt in the center of the crossroads with the heel of his boot and buried the tin, covering it with a sprinkling of dirt. It wasn’t buried deep, but he figured it would work just as well.

He stepped back from the hole and shoved his hands into his pockets, waiting. He didn’t have to wait long. There was a low laugh behind him, and Dean turned and saw an average-height man wearing a dark overcoat and black suit. He had a scruff of heavy stubble and when he spoke, it was with a cockney [J21] accent. “What is it with you, Winchesters?”

Dean crossed his arms over his chest, not answering.

“No, really, I’m honestly curious,” the demon said. “I mean once is all very well. A father’s love and all that. But then there’s you, doing it for your kid brother. I put that down misplaced responsibilities forced on you since childhood. Then comes Sam… I guess we can chalk it up to guilt. But here you are again. I have to ask; don’t you Winchesters ever get tired of the constant merry-go-round of deals and goodbyes?”

“You know what I want,” Dean said steadily.

“You want your soul swapped with your brother’s,” the demon said. “I get that, I do. Clearly family really means something to you Winchesters. You can’t say that about a lot of people these days. Months go by without a phone call or a postcard for most. But I can’t help you. We’re sworn off of making deals with Winchesters.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, I heard that, but that rule’s been broken once already this week, and I figure it could use another go.”

The demon raised his arms at his sides and smiled deprecatingly. “I’d love you help you, Dean, really I would, but as the one that makes the rules, I can’t.”

” _You_ make the rules?” Dean said doubtfully.

“Name’s Crowley. And I’m King of the Crossroads. Now, like I say, I’d love to help you, but I can’t.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Why not?”

Crowley sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because I may be king, but I have a boss like anyone else, and my boss is a badass. She’s got Sam right where she wants him.”

Dean knew as soon as Crowley mentioned a _she_ who he was talking about. It was the same demon bitch that had held his contract. It was the same demon bitch that had summoned the Hellhound that had torn him apart. It was Lilith.

Crowley nodded. “I see you know who I mean. Well, she has Sam exactly where she wants him, and as for you…” He shrugged. “Your work there is done.”

Dean stiffened at the reminder of what he’d become down there. It had only been a matter of days compared to the decades he’d spent under the knife, but the fact he’d turned on the souls around him and become their torturer was a point of deepest shame to him.

“So you see, I can’t help, and neither can any other demon.” Crowley said. “I suggest you get back to life as best you can and try to forget what happened.”

“You think I should forget my brother?” Dean asked through gritted teeth.

Crowley shook his head slowly. “No, I think you should forget just how good that blade felt in your hand and try to get back to life as you knew it. Your brother is gone, and while your work down _there_ is done, there’s still plenty for you to do here. People to save and all that.”

Dean turned away and walked back towards the car. On the crest of the horizon, the sun made an appearance, and the darkness of their crossroads was washed away. He turned back, and saw the demon was gone.

He hadn’t achieved what he’d come to do, but if the demon was telling the truth, there was no way to do that now.

Sam was gone and he wasn’t coming back.

xXx

He drove for hours, aimlessly following the back roads and highways. His teeth were gritted against the pain overwhelming his heart and head. His eyes constantly moved to the seat his brother should have been sitting in. Every time his eyes found the space his brother should be occupying, another tear fell. He thought that he should have exhausted the supply, but they kept on coming.

Eventually, he moved from deepest desperation onto anger. He was angry at everyone, Bobby for not keeping an eye on Sam, Ellen and Jo for not stopping him when they knew what he was doing, and himself for dragging Sam back into the hunting life in the first place. If Dean had left him to live his life at Stanford, none of this would have happened. He wished he could be angry at Sam, that would make the heart-wrenching pain easier to bear, but he couldn’t, not when Sam had done it to save him.

The sun was high in the sky, reflecting of the polished hood of the car, when Dean came to a stop outside a small bar in Red Oak. From the exterior it looked like a dive—clapboard walls faded to a dull grey that gave no hint of the color they had once been, a flickering _Bud Light_ sign and grimy windows—and when he stepped inside he saw it was worse that he thought. The floors may as well have been coated with sawdust. It was perfect however. It would have good liquor, cheap, and he wouldn’t be fighting a mass of people to get to the bar. In fact, the only patrons seemed to be a couple of elderly men sitting in a corner, nursing their tankards and a young man at the bar knocking back shots. Dean eyed him and wondered what had him getting soused before noon. Whatever his sob story was, Dean was sure he had it beat.

He ambled up to the bar and sank down onto a decrepit looking stool. He wondered whether it would hold his weight, but falling on his ass wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen to him that day.

There was no bartender in sight, so he slammed his hand down on the bar and shouted, “Service!”

A heavyset man ambled out from a door behind the bar and scowled at Dean. “Yes,” he said belligerently.

“Whiskey,” Dean said, pointing to the rack of bottles behind the bar. “Keep them coming.”

The man eyed him, perhaps wondering whether Dean’s rudeness meant he could refuse to serve him. Dean rooted through his back pocket and pulled out the roll of bills Bobby had lent him. The idea had been that he could buy Sam a beer when he tracked him down, but that idea had gone to crap like the rest of Dean’s plans had.

The man looked at the rolls of bills and then turned to get Dean’s drink. Suddenly, he spun around and asked, “Does anyone else hear that?”

Dean didn’t have time or patience for the man’s bullshit, but then he heard it too. A high-pitched whining sound that drilled through Dean’s head. He put his hands up to cover his ears, but it didn’t block the sound. His eyes squeezed shut and he grimaced. Then through the whining sound came the crashes of breaking glass. Dean felt sharp pains erupt over his hands and face, and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter. The scent of alcohol suddenly became a lot stronger.

As fast as it had come, the sound ended. Dean opened his eyes cautiously and surveyed the damage around him. There was broken glass everywhere. The potent smell of alcohol was explained, as the bottles of alcohol that had lined the back of the bar all seemed to have smashed, spilling their contents. Dean got to his feet and brushed the shards of glass from his shirt.

“What the hell was that?” one of the old men in the corner asked.

“I’ve be damned if I know,” the bartender answered. He turned and caught sight of his mangled stock. “Awww, hell.”

Dean thought it was time for him to make a quick exit. He grabbed his roll of bills from the bar and made for the door. Unnoticed by the others in the bar, they were too busy discussing what had happened, he snuck out the door and climbed into the car.

He drove a few blocks before pulling over at the side of the road to examine his injuries. Small shards of glass were imbedded in his face and the backs of his hands. Painstakingly, he pulled each shard out and tossed it out of the window. When he was finished, his face and hands were dotted with small wounds that looked like shaving nicks. They hurt, but he didn’t much care. Niggling cuts were the least of his worries. Given what had happened at the bar, he thought he had far more pressing concerns to be dealing with. Like whatever the hell had just happened.

xXx

He pulled the car to a stop beside Bobby’s Chevelle in front of the bar and took a deep breath. He was coming back a failure, and the worst part was that the people inside wouldn’t even care. If anything, they would be relieved that he had failed. They cared about Sam, he knew that, and they were wrecked by his death, but to them what Sam had done was a great act of sacrifice that should be honored not cancelled out by another deal.

He draped himself over the steering wheel, not knowing that he was exactly imitating what his brother had done only a matter of days earlier. He was devastated by his failure, whereas Sam had been exultant at his success.

It took him a long time to marshal himself to go back into the bar because he knew there was a hard task ahead of him. Sam couldn’t be left lying on that bed, he needed tending to, and Dean knew that was going to incite an argument. He couldn’t burn Sam. He just couldn’t. It might have been what he wanted, it might have been a hunter’s honor, but Dean couldn’t bear to set light to his corpse and watch it burn.

With heavy footsteps and a heavy heart, Dean walked back to the bar. He saw a sign had been tacked onto the door, saying: **c _losed for family emergency._ ** Dean was pleased to see the sign. He didn’t want to deal with other hunters at the moment. He didn’t particularly want to deal with anyone, Bobby, Ellen and Jo included, but he would have to for a little longer. He needed their help.

When he stepped inside, he saw that Bobby and Jo were seated at the bar nursing mugs of coffee, but Ellen was nowhere in sight.

Bobby stood as he came in and started towards Dean. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Long story,” Dean said, scrubbing a hand over his wounded face and wincing. “Where’s Ellen?”

“She’s with Sam,” Jo said.

Dean felt anger rise within him. If she had started… If he was burning… Dean would never forgive her.

“She’s just sitting with him,” Bobby said in a hollow tone. “No one’s touched him.”

Dean breathed an audible sigh of relief and made for Sam’s room. He stopped at the door, and turned back to face Bobby. “I need a… coffin, for Sammy.”

“Dean,” Jo said softly. “He wanted to be burned.”

Dean shook his head. “I don’t… I can’t do it, Jo. He’s my little brother. I can’t burn him.”

Bobby stared into his eyes, testing his resolve, and then he nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

Ellen was sitting in the chair beside the bed. She was silent, just staring down at Sam. When Dean entered, she got to her feet and threw her arms around him. Dean felt tears burn at his eyes again, but he wouldn’t let them fall. The time for tears had come and gone. He had to be strong now.

She leaned back and cupped his cheeks in her hands. “It didn’t work.”

Dean closed his eyes and shook his head. “They won’t deal with me.”

“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” she said, staring into his eyes. “I know how much you wanted it.”

Dean looked down at his brother. “Thanks for sitting with him.”

“He’s family,” she said simply. “What are you going to do now?”

“I’m going to bury him,” he said then raised a hand, forestalling her protests. “I know it’s not what he wanted, but I can’t do it any other way. I have to leave the option there. I’m not giving up hope.”

“Okay. You want some help? There’s a… The stuff you’ll need’s in the shed.”

Dean shook his head. He was going to do this alone. He would bury his brother. It was the last act of love he could carry out for Sam, seeing him properly taken care of.

“I’ll do it.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

After Dean laid the last clod of earth down over his brother grave, he went into the bar and picked up a bottle of cheap whiskey. He carried it into his brother’s room and sat down on the chair beside the bed. There, he drank his way through the bottle and then fell asleep. He slept for twelve hours, waking the next morning with a pounding head and heavy heart.

He made his way into the kitchen and saw Ellen and Bobby sitting at the table. Ellen got to her feet as he came in and moved to the counter to pour him a mug of coffee. She set it down in front of him, laid a hand on his shoulder for a moment, and then sat down again.

“Jo’s gone,” she said. “There’s a werewolf in Maryland, and she’s gone to do some recon before the full moon. She sends her love and says to call if there is anything… you know.”

Dean nodded and turned his attention to his coffee. Picking up a spoon from the center of the table, he swirled it, creating a miniature whirlpool. He took his coffee black, like a man, as his father had said, but Sam had always gone for the frou-frou lattes and macchiatos. Dean used to tease him about it… before.

“You want to talk about what happened to your face?” Bobby asked.

Dean’s head jerked up and he put a finger to his cheek, feeling one of the cuts. In the face of everything else that had happened, Dean had almost forgotten about what had happened in the bar. “Yeah, I guess…” He drew a deep breath and told them everything about his visit to the bar and what had happened there. “It was like this force blew through the place,” he finished.

Bobby tugged at his cap, looking thoughtful. “You think something’s after you?”

Dean nodded. “Something powerful. And that’s not all. Where I was planted, when I got out, it looked like a nuke had gone off, blackened earth and trees all knocked down.”

“What are you thinking?” Ellen asked.

“Bad mojo brought me out. What if something else hitched a ride?”

Bobby sighed out a heavy breath. “Like a demon?”

“Like a _badass_ demon,” Dean said. “It’s not just the bar and the grave, though they’re weird enough. Ever since I got back, I’ve had this feeling, like something’s happening. Something more than Sammy.”

“It never does to ignore something like that,” Ellen said. “But I don’t even know where to start. I guess we could check for demon signs, but”—she shrugged—“it’s a big ass country and there’s no knowing which demon it could be. Sam filled me in on your last year and that Lilith character; we could follow the signs to her and get our asses blasted.”

Dean’s lips curved into a mockery of a smile. “Let her try.”

“You suddenly superhuman?” Bobby asked sarcastically.

“No, but I’ve got nothing left to lose. If she wants me, she can come take me.”

For a moment, Dean thought Bobby might actually punch him. His face reddened and he breathed heavily. Then he seemed to marshal himself, and when he spoke, it was in a low growl. “Your brother is dead because he saved you. If you go after Lilith now on some suicide mission, you’ll be spitting all over what Sam did. God knows it hurts, but death isn’t an easy answer for this, Dean. We’ll find a way to kill Lilith, and we’ll do it for Sam, but not till we’re armed and ready.”

“Well, what do you suggest?” he asked.

Bobby smiled grimly. “I’ve got a couple of contacts. If something hitched a ride with you, they’ll know about it. Give me a while to make some phone calls, and then we’ll be ready to get some answers.”

Having no better plan in mind, Dean nodded and sipped at his coffee. “Whatever you do, work fast, Bobby. I’m not sitting around here waiting for more people to die because of me.”

xXx

Bobby pulled the car over at the side of the road on an attractive suburban street. The houses all around were well kept, with flourishing gardens and neat paintwork. It was the sort of place Sam would have liked to live in as a kid, Dean thought. He’d always been jealous of the other kids with their apple pie lives.

Pushing aside upsetting thoughts of his brother for what felt like the hundredth time that day, Dean climbed out of the car and followed Bobby up the steps to the front door. Bobby knocked and Dean saw a figure approaching the door through the filmy curtain. A moment later, the door swung open and a woman came into view. She had dark, wavy hair and alluring hazel eyes.

She threw her arms around Bobby and hugged him tight, almost lifting him into the air. “Bobby!” she said excitedly, then she turned to Dean and her expression became somber. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

“Bobby told you,” Dean said.

Bobby shook his head. “No. Dean, this is Pamela Barnes, best damn psychic in the state.”

She held out a hand and Dean shook it.

“Dean Winchester. Out of the fire and back in the frying pan, huh? Makes you a rare individual.”

Dean shrugged. “If you say so.”

She smiled at him sadly. “Come on in.”

They followed her into the house and she closed the door behind them.

“So, you hear anything?” Bobby asked.

“Well, I Ouija'd my way through a dozen spirits. No one seems to know who followed your boy out.”

“But something did?” Dean asked.

“I'm not sure,” she said. “The spirits are all aquiver. Something big is coming down on us all, and they’re twitchy.”

“So what's next?” Bobby asked.

“A séance I think. See if we can nail down a name for what’s coming.”

A frown creased Bobby’s brow. “You're not gonna summon the damn thing here.”

“No. I just want to get a sneak peek at it. Like a crystal ball without the crystal.”

She led them into a small room with a polished wooden table in the center of the room. She rooted through a cupboard and pulled out a black cloth covered with symbols and a handful of candles. Dean watched as she laid the cloth over the table and set up the candles while Bobby closed the drapes.

“You’re gonna need to sit down,” she said softly, “and we need to hold hands.”

Dean sat and linked hands with Bobby and Pamela. He felt a little stupid doing it, as if they were children playing with things best left alone. Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore his self-consciousness and focus on what was happening. He needed a name for what had followed him out.

“Okay,” Pamela said. “Everyone keep an open mind and is prepared to run like hell.”

“You sure about this, Pamela?” Bobby asked.

“We want to find the big bad, right?”

Dean had no arguments. Safe or not this would hopefully track down whatever had hitched a ride with him back to earth. It was his responsibility to take care of it, since it was his fault the thing had come along in the first place.

Pamela began to chant and Dean felt the tension in the room ratchet up a notch. “I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle. I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle.”

In the corner, the television turned on to blare white noise at them.

“I invoke, conjure, and command... Castiel? No. Sorry, Castiel, I don't scare easy.”

“Castiel?” Dean asked. The word meant nothing to him, he’d never heard it before, but if this was the thing that had chased him out, the name was about to become a lot more important.

“Its name. It's whispering to me, warning me to turn back.”

The whining Dean had heard in the bar came back, and the table began to shake.

“I conjure and command you, show me your face,” Pamela chanted. “I conjure and command you—“

Dean felt some sense of impending doom settle over him, as if things were about to get a lot worse. He yanked his hand out of Pamela and Bobby’s grip and stood, knocking the chair back to the floor. He was panting, but he didn’t know why; he just had the feeling they had dodged a bullet.

He shook his head. “We are not trying that again!”

“Dean,” Bobby said gently.

“No, Bobby. We have a name, that’s all we need. Whatever just happened, it was bad mojo, and we’re better off away from it.”

Pamela breathed out a heavy breath. “I hate to say it, but I think he’s right.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Shame, that was a hell of a buzz.”

“I’ll wait in the car,” Dean said. He felt like his skin was crawling, he wanted to get out of that place. Castiel, whoever he was, seemed too close inside that dull room.

He walked through the hall to the front door. As his hand rested on the handle, Pamela called out to him. “Dean.”

He turned and saw her standing in the doorway. “Yeah.”

“Missouri sent me a message for you.”

“How do you know about…?” Dean hadn’t seen or thought of Missouri Mosely in what felt like a lifetime.

Pamela touched her temple. “Psychic, remember? She says it’s about time you came home for a visit.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” he said, turning the handle and stepping out into the bright sunlight.

When Bobby came out, ten minutes later, Dean was sitting back in his seat with his eyes closed.

“You okay?” Bobby asked.

Dean glared at him balefully. “What do you think?”

“Stupid question,” Bobby admitted. “Don’t mind Pamela. She’s a good girl, just a little excitable.”

“She’s fine. I just didn’t like that place. It felt like the big bad was too close.”

“Castiel, huh.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, Castiel.”

“You want to head back to Ellen’s?”

Dean considered. They were only in Des Moines, a few hours out of Lincoln, but he wasn’t in the mood to go back to the bar. The pain of his brother’s absence was more acutely felt there, so close to his resting place. “Nah, let’s get a room for the night. We can head back tomorrow.”

Bobby nodded his agreement and started the engine. “I know a place.”

xXx

When Bobby said he knew a place, Dean assumed he meant another crappy motel like the ones he’d spent his life in, but he pulled them to a stop outside a hotel with high, vaulted windows and a shining front door. Bobby climbed out and Dean felt the weight of the car shift under him. He climbed out and looked at Bobby over the top of the car. “Bit flash, isn’t it?”

Bobby looked away. “I’ve got something put by. Besides, I thought we could do with something a little nicer for a change.”

Dean understood what he was trying to say, and while he appreciated it, no amount of fancy hotels were going to make him feel any better about his lot in life.

“We can go somewhere else,” Bobby said.

Dean was past caring. “It’s fine.”

He followed Bobby into the lobby and waited while Bobby booked two rooms for them. Bobby chatted with the woman behind the desk as if it was any other day. It pissed Dean off. How was Bobby able to act like that in the face of everything that had happened? Sam was dead. How could Bobby go on like it was nothing? And then Bobby turned away, and Dean saw the lines of sadness reappear on Bobby’s face, as if someone had turned a screw and slackened everything slightly. Whatever it was in Bobby that made it possible for him turn his grief on and off like that, Dean wanted it too. He had a feeling he was going to need it in years to come if he had to keep living on this rock.

The elevator dinged, bringing Dean out of his thoughts, and he filed in after Bobby.

Bobby opened his mouth a couple of times, as if he was going to say something, but he clicked it shut again each time and remained silent. Dean was glad of it.

When he got to his room, Bobby handed him a keycard and told him he was going to get them some food. Dean grunted an acknowledgement and dropped his bag down onto the huge bed in the center of the room. When he was alone, he sat on the edge of the bed, and bowed forward, twisting his fingers in his short hair. His mind was flickering from what had happened at Pamela’s, to Sam, to this Castiel he had to find, and back to Sam again. Sam dead. Sam in Hell. Sam lying on that damned bed, pale and waxy in death.

“Dammit!” he bellowed, jerking upright and pacing the room.

What was he supposed to do now? He knew what he wanted, death, but that would be—as Bobby had said—an insult to what Sam had done for him. He couldn’t die, but he couldn’t live either. He was in an impossible situation. He could either choose what he wanted or what Sam would want. He had given Sam what he needed all his life, maybe not always what he wanted but what he needed. Surely it was his time to be selfish.

He shook his head as the thoughts battered at his mind. He could be selfish, but not yet. He had responsibilities. He had brought this Castiel out with him apparently, so he had to be the one to take him down. After that was taken care of, he would be free to do what he wanted. Resolved in his decision, he sat down on the bed again and waited for Bobby to get back.

He had been waiting only a matter of minutes before the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he heard a very faint whining sound.

“Aw, hell,” he groaned.

As he knew it would, the sound grew louder and more piercing, until it was so loud he thought it was drill through his brain, driving him insane. Both hands came up to cover his ears, to try to protect him from the noise. The windows smashed, blasting him with shards of broken glass, and a huge mirror on the wall fragmented and crashed to the ground.

The sound reached a peak and Dean dropped to his knees, crying out in pain.

Suddenly, the door flew open and Bobby raced in. “Dean!”

The noise cut off and Dean was left panting on the ground. Bobby squatted beside him and laid a hand on his arm. “Are you okay?”

Dean nodded mutely, slowly pulling his hands away from his ears.

“What the hell was that?” Bobby asked.

Dean eased himself to his feet, wary of the broken glass spread about the place. “I think that was Castiel.” He brushed the glass off his duffel and hefted it over his shoulder. “C’mon. We’ve got to get out of here. We’ve got things to do.”

“We do?”

“Yeah, we’re summoning that Castiel dick.”

Bobby’s eyes bugged out. “You can't be serious!”

“As a heart attack,” Dean said solemnly.

“Dean, we don't know what it is. It could be a demon. It could be anything.”

“That's why we've got to be ready for anything. We've got the knife; you've got an arsenal in the trunk...”

“This is a bad idea.”

“Yeah, I couldn't agree more, but what other choice do we have?”

“We could choose life. Dean, I know you’re hurting, I am too, but you can’t go into this as a suicide mission.”

Dean shrugged. “You do what you want, Bobby. I’m summoning this thing and that’s that. Come with, or stay here and explain the damage, your choice.”

Bobby sighed and looked around the destroyed room. “Well, I never was much one for explaining things.”

Dean smiled grimly, pleased that Bobby had his back.

xXx

Dean looked around the cavernous room, taking in the spray painted sigils and signs Bobby had covered the walls with. There were some he recognized from years on the job but others that were completely new to him.

“That's a hell of an art project you've got going there.”

Bobby finished painting in the last of the sigil he was working on and straightened. “Traps and talismans from every faith on the globe. How you doing?”

Dean gestured to the table in front of him; he had every weapon he could think of in front of him. “Stakes, iron, silver, salt, knife. I mean, we're pretty much set to catch and kill anything I've ever heard of.”

“This is still a bad idea.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah, Bobby, I heard you the first ten times.”

“Well I hate to be a bore, but are you sure you’ve thought this through?”

Dean closed his eyes and willed his voice to sound steady. “This isn’t a suicide mission, Bobby. If it was, I wouldn’t drag you into it. I am just doing what needs to be done. This Castiel is bad news, and I need to take care of it. You don’t have to stay.”

Bobby scoffed. “Like I’d leave you to fight this alone.” He moved to the other table where they had set out the ingredients for the summoning spell. Taking a pinch of power, he tossed it into the large bowl that was already filled with everything they would need. The bowl began to smoke and Bobby began to chant Latin.

There was nothing for a long moment but the sound of Bobby’s chanting, and then the roof panels began to shake as if caught in a high wind. The lights above them blew out and sparks rained down to the floor.

Dean looked across the room in time to see the door creaking open. He braced himself, wondering what fugly was about to come through. When he caught sight of their visitor, it was not what Dean was expecting.

It was a man, or at least it looked like a man, with dark hair and a scruff of stubble. He was wearing a black suit and beige trenchcoat.

Dean grabbed a shotgun from the table, and he saw Bobby do the same. As one, they raised their guns and pulled the triggers. The bullets hit the man, Dean saw it, but they didn’t even slow him down. He kept on coming at them, looking supremely indifferent to the fact they were doing all they could to kill him.

Dean grabbed Ruby’s knife from the table and waited for the man to step into his sights. The man came closer, stepping between Dean and Bobby.

“Who are you?” Dean asked.

“My name is Castiel.”

Dean drew his arm back and plunged the knife into the centre of the man’s chest. He stepped back, triumphant at the killing blow, but the man merely smiled ruefully and gripped the hilt of the knife. With a sickening squelching sound, he pulled the blade out and let it drop to the floor.

Behind him, Bobby raised a tire iron and swung it through the air in a move that should have turned the man’s brains to jelly, but before Bobby could land the blow, the man reached behind him and caught the iron and used it to drag Bobby around. With an expression of complete indifference, he pressed two fingers to Bobby’s temple, and Bobby crumpled to the ground.

“Bobby!” Dean shouted.

“We need to talk, Dean,” the man said. “Alone.“

Dean disregarded the man and crouched over Bobby, pressing his fingers to the older man’s neck. For a second he had a very real fear that he was dead, but he felt the pounding of life against his fingertips. He glared up at the man.

“Your friend's alive.”

“Who are you?”

“Castiel.”

“Yeah, I heard that much, I mean _what_ are you?”

“I'm an Angel of the Lord.”

Dean straightened. “Get the hell out of here. There's no such thing.”

This… creature, whatever he was, was talking to the wrong brother. Sam would have swallowed this crap up and loved it. e’He’He’d believed in angels and God and all the rest of it. Dean wasn’t so stupid.

“This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith.“

Dean was struggling to come up with a witty comeback when lightning flashed across the room and the man straightened. In the flashes of light, Dean saw huge, black, shadowy wings appeared on the wall. Angel’s wings. He took an involuntary step back.

“Now, you see. I _am_ an angel.”

“And you were in Hell?” Dean asked.

The man frowned. “Why would you think that?”

Dean huffed. “Maybe because I get sprung from the pit and you appear the same day.”

The man sighed heavily. “I can see why you would think that, given your history of misfortune, but no. I was not in Hell. In fact, I was the one who was going to save you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was chosen to be the one to pull you from perdition. There was to be an incursion of angels. We were going to save you, Dean.”

Dean raised a shaky hand. “You’re telling me you were going to pull me out?”

The man nodded. “It was only a matter of time. A human month was needed to prepare the host for the mission. You were to be saved. But your brother…”

“Sam,” Dean said. “Sammy made the deal.” The thought that Sam was gone was unbearable, but the thought he had died and gone there for no reason was so much worse. A month. That was nothing, a mere decade of Hell time. If he had just waited…

Dean swallowed down his misery, locking it away until he could be free to vent it alone, and asked, “And why would an angel rescue me from Hell?”

“Good things do happen, Dean.”

“Not in my experience. Not in my family.”

“What's the matter? You don't think you deserve to be saved?”

“I don’t,” he said firmly. Then a bright, shining hope burgeoned through him. Here was the answer. He couldn’t make a deal with demons, but maybe he could with an angel. “I don’t deserve to be saved, but Sammy does. You’re an angel, you can save him.”

The man shook his head somberly. “I cannot do that.”

Dean grabbed the man’s lapels and yanked at him. “Save him!” he bellowed. “You said you were going to do it for me, now do it for him. Sam deserves to be saved. He believes in God and angels and all that crap. He always has. Now, save him!”

“I cannot,” the man said. “I need orders, and no orders have been issued for me.”

“That’s because they don’t understand,” Dean said. “Maybe they don’t know.”

The man unclenched Dean’s fingers from his jacket as easily as breaking a child’s grasp. He stepped back and brushed down his coat. “Your brother’s situation is known to us.”

“You know!” Dean snarled. “You know he’s in Hell, burning in the fires, because of me.”

“Sam made a great sacrifice to save you.”

Dean waved away the words. He knew just how great a sacrifice his brother had made. He had lived it. That was what was so screwed up; it was supposed to be his last sacrifice, not his brother’s.

“Why would you do it for me when you won’t do it for Sam?” Dean asked desolately.

The man straightened and his deep voice echoed off the walls. “Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you.”

“Screw you and your God!” Dean shouted. “You want me to work for you when you won’t do one simple thing for someone that actually deserves it!”

“This is bigger than you and your brother,” the man said. “The world is as risk of ending.”

Dean shook his head and words that he once spoke to Bobby echoed in his mind. ‘ _You don't think I've given enough? You don't think I've paid enough?’_ He had given more, paid more, and lost more than he thought possible since that day and his response was the same as it had been then.

“Let it end.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

 

Dean groaned and raked his hands through his hair. “I’m telling you, Bobby, I don’t care what he said, he was _not_ an angel.”

Bobby crossed his arms over his chest. “Fine. You seem to be all knowing now, so what was he?”

“A demon?”

“Sure, it was a demon, a demon that was able to knock me out with a little fingers to the forehead move and a demon that’s immune to salt rounds, devil’s traps and that zippy knife.”

Ellen set a cup of coffee in front of each of them and rested a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean wasn’t overly comfortable with the contact, he wasn’t as tactile as Sam, but it seemed to make her happy so he didn’t complain. They were grouped in Ellen’s small kitchen. The light was streaming through the window and the air smelled of coffee. It was a comfortable room, but Dean felt like an intruder. This was a room for a family, and no matter what Ellen said, Dean wasn’t family. His family was dead.

After their encounter with Castiel they’d come back to Ellen’s for the night. Dean had sacked down in Sam’s room and crashed for a few hours. When he’d woken, Ellen was out preparing the bar for opening and Bobby was ready to start the argument he’d started in the car the night before.

“Why don’t you want it to be an angel, sweetie,” Ellen asked softly.

“I’m not saying I don’t want it to be an angel. It’s just… that guy said he was supposed to pull me out of the pit. Why? Why would angels—or God for that matter—care about me? I’m just an ordinary guy.”

“An ordinary guy that saved a whole lotta lives,” Bobby said.

“And why,” Dean said, ignoring Bobby, “would they let Sam make that deal knowing they were saving me anyway. They’re angels; they should be all knowing, right? It just doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe they didn’t know,” Bobby said. “They might not be all-knowing. We don’t know anything about them other than the fact they don’t look like the Raphael version of themselves. That guy looked like an ordinary Joe.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, an ordinary tax accountant.”

Bobby nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s exactly who It was really.”

“You telling me we got jumped by a bean counter?”

Bobby sighed. “No, I’m thinking the guy was a meat suit. The angel was what was inside.”

“So now we’ve got angels jumping people’s bones, too? Like we don’t have enough fugly things out ruining lives.”

Bobby shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just a theory. I don’t have any of my books with me, so I can’t exactly look this stuff up.”

Dean clapped his hands together. “That’s it then. We’ve got to go back to your place.”

He had been looking for an excuse to leave since he had buried Sam. He didn’t want to be here anymore. Soon, the bar would be crawling with hunters, some that Dean knew, and they were sure to be asking about Sam. He didn’t think he could stand explaining what had happened. He didn’t want the sympathy from people that didn’t really know him or Sam. Pamela’s regret had been hard enough to bear.

“I think he’s right,” Ellen said. “You know you’re always welcome here, but I don’t have anything resembling a library.”

Dean got to his feet, dislodging Ellen’s hand in the process, and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. He took one look at the back door, blocking the sight of Sam’s grave, and nodded to Ellen. “I’ll see you.”

She didn’t let him get off that easy; she caught him in a hug that made his breath huff out. “Make sure you come back soon.”

Dean relaxed into her embrace for a moment and nodded. “You know I will.”

She released him and he pulled his jacket on. “I’ll see you back at the house, Bobby.”

“Be right behind ya,” Bobby said.

Dean walked through the empty bar and out the front door. He wasn’t sure he would have been able to keep going had he had to pass his brother’s grave. He didn’t want to leave him here alone. Ellen would be here, but without Dean, Sam was alone.

He climbed into the car and started the engine. He reversed out of the spot he had parked in and angled the car for the open road. Just as he started out, another car passed him on the way into the parking lot. It was a car he recognized, belonging to a hunter named Barrett. Dean had left just in time.

xxx

Dean was almost at Sioux City when his phone rang. For a second, a glorious second, he thought it was Sam calling him. His moment of exhilaration burst like a soap bubble as he saw the name flashing across the screen and reality caught up with him. Fighting down his disappointment, he wedged the phone between his chin and shoulder.

“Bobby?”

“Where are you?”

“Just outside Sioux City,“ Dean said.

“Turn around and head for Cherokee.”

“Why?”

“I’ve got a friend, another hunter, called Olivia Lowry. I’ve been calling around for anyone that’s heard of angels and she’s not picking up.”

“You want me to drive an hour because your friend is in the shower?” Dean asked irritably.

He heard Bobby’s deep inhale and when he spoke in was in a careful measured tone. “I want you to drive an hour because I think she’s in trouble. She’s the fourth hunter that I’ve called that’s not picking up. She just happened to be the closest to you. I want you to check it out while I head into Lexington to check on Bates.”

Dean sighed. “Okay. Where’s this chick based?”

Bobby reeled off an address and ended the call.

Dean turned the car and headed east for Cherokee.

The address wasn’t what he was expecting from one of Bobby’s hunter friends. Hunters usually liked space around them, but this was a part of an apartment complex. Not only unusual, it would make getting in more complicated. The main door had a security key pass that looked professional. Dean wouldn’t be able to pick it.

He spotted a small store at the end of the street and an idea occurred to him. He climbed out of the car and walked down the street.

A bell tinkled overhead as he opened the florist’s door and he was greeted by a matronly looking woman wearing a frilled apron and floral dress. “How may I help you?” she asked sweetly.

Dean pulled out his roll of bills and counted them quickly. “I need the nicest bouquet I can get for fifty bucks.”

“Trouble with the wife?” the woman asked with a smile.

“Something like that.”

“Flowers are a great first step,” the woman said. “But you might want to pair them with a smile.”

He wondered what she would say if he explained why smiling wasn’t on his list of priorities. _“Gee, sorry, lady. I’m just having a bad week. You see, I had this brother that died. I know, I know, what a tragedy. I was able to fix it though. I made a deal with a demon and saved his life. I went to Hell, which sucked, but I was okay with it. Then my dumbass brother made a deal of his own. He’s rotting in Hell now, and I’m stuck here without a thing to help him. Oh, and apparently angels are real, too. So, you see, I’m not really in the mood to smile right now.”_

Shaking his head, Dean forced his lips into a smile that felt more like a grimace.

She eyed him appraisingly. “It’s a start I guess. Now, what flowers does your wife like?”

Dean looked around at the flowers on display and realized he couldn’t name a single one of them. Any knowledge he might have of floral displays—not that he would admit to having any—deserted him.

“Um… pink ones,” he said lamely.

She nodded and bustled around, picking up blooms and laying them on the counter. She chattered as she worked, and Dean caught the words lilies, roses and ferns, but his attention was directed elsewhere. Behind the counter was an array of cards to go with the flowers. The more somber of them bore phrases like _In loving memory_ and _In your time of need._ They were for funerals. Sam hadn’t had much of a funeral. He hadn’t even had the hunter’s funeral he wanted. He’d just been buried behind a rundown bar in Nebraska with a rough wooden cross marking the place. It wasn’t what Dean wanted for him, but it was the best he could do in the circumstances.

“Here you… Are you okay?”

Dean looked up at the woman and saw she was eying him with concern. His dark thoughts must have translated to his expression.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Is it done?”

She nodded. “Now, if you’d like to pick out a card.”

“I don’t need a card,” he said, holding out his roll of bills.

“You’re so right,” she said with an approving nod. “Speak from the heart. That will win her over.”

He took the bouquet and made his way to the door. She called out a goodbye after him, and he grunted in response.

Out on the street, Dean started to rethink his plan. There were a whole lot of flowers in his arms, and he felt stupid. He had blown the last of his cash on these though, so he wasn’t going to waste them. He went back to the car and stood leaning against the door with the flowers in his arms.

Thankfully, he only had to wait ten minutes before he saw a woman coming up the street with keys swinging on her finger. She stopped at the apartment and Dean jogged across the street. As she caught sight of him, she fumbled her keys. “Can I help you?”

Dean dug deep for his most charming smile and said, “I was hoping you could let me in. I went on a date with Olivia Lowry in 22c last night, and I want to leave these for her.”

He held his breath as he waited for the woman’s reaction, privately hoping this wasn’t in fact Olivia. That would take some explaining.

“I didn’t know Olivia was dating again,” the woman said. “Good for her. And with such a charming man, too.”

Dean looked down, feigning embarrassment. “I don’t know about that.”

“Come on in,” she said swinging the door open.

Thanking his rarely lucky stars, Dean followed her into a plush hall with thick carpets. At one wall was a bank of boxes for mail. The woman who’d let him in collected her mail, and then began ripping the seals on the envelopes. Dean used her distraction to make for the elevator and press the button for the third floor. He figured he’d start there—C meaning three—and work his way through the building if he couldn’t find the right apartment.

He found Olivia’s apartment at the end of a hall, and yet again, his luck was in. Hers was the last on the hall and around a corner so he could squat down and get to work on the lock without anyone watching him. It’d been a while since he’d picked a lock and it took a few tries before the tumblers clicked into place

He knew as soon as he opened the door that something was terribly wrong, as the stench of coppery blood was thick in the air. When he entered, he had to stop a moment and control his gag reflex. He had seen a lot of gore in his life, he’d been the recipient of some grisly injuries, but he’d not seen _this_ before. It looked like something had ripped into Olivia’s chest with a blunt object and pulled out her heart. It wasn’t the work of a werewolf; there were no gore marks. It was as someone had shoved a fist into her chest. Werewolves didn’t do that.

There was a salt line in the doorway in front of her. He stepped over it carefully to get a better look. She would once have been pretty with her dark hair and full lips, but now her hair was strewn around her head like a halo and her lips were pulled back in a grimace of pain.

He shook his head. “I’m real sorry, Olivia.”

He dropped the flowers he had brought down beside her, and turned on his heel and left.

When he got back to the car, he called Bobby, wondering how he was going to deliver this blow.

“She dead?” Bobby asked gruffly in lieu of a hello.

“Afraid so.”

“Damn. Bates too.”

“I’m sorry, Bobby,” Dean said.

“Yeah, me too. I’ve got a couple more people to check in with. Meet me back at the house.”

Dean hung up the phone and gunned the engine. First Sam, now his buddies Olivia and Bates, Dean wondered how much more Bobby would lose before the end.

xxx

Dean let himself into Bobby’s and shrugged off his jacket. Tossing it on the back of a chair, he made for the library and picked up the almost empty bottle of whiskey from the desk. He didn’t bother with a glass; he merely tilted his head back and took a long pull of the bottle. It burned his throat as it went down, and he gasped. He knew drinking in the middle of the day wasn’t the most responsible behavior, especially not when he was supposed to be on a case, but he didn’t much care. His brother was dead, surely that was a good excuse to throw the rulebook out the window.

In his mind’s eye, Sam’s disapproving face appeared. His brow was furrowed into the frown he had perfected as a child. John Winchester had called it ‘The Face’ _“Sorry, Sammy, the store was out of Lucky Charms.”_ Cue the face. As Sam had grown, so had the face. _‘No, Sam, you can’t join the football team. Were leaving town as soon as I finish this job.’_ Cue the face. Now Dean imagined that face directed at him and it almost broke his heart.

He put the bottle down and half walked half staggered into the bathroom under the weight of his guilt. He splashed cold water over his face, dispelling the vision of his brother, and looked up into the mirror. When he’d been in that fill up join in Illinois, he’d thought there was a darkness in his eyes that his brother might notice. The darkness was still there, and it had been deepened and added to by his loss. He scrubbed a hand over his face and muttered to himself, “I’m sorry, Sammy. I’m doing my best.”

Suddenly, the temperature in the room seemed to drop by a few dozen degrees. His breath misted in front of him and the mirror he was staring into literally froze over. He wiped a hand over the glass and started as he caught sight of someone standing behind him, Henriksen. Though his clothes were tattered and torn, he looked exactly the same as they had the last time they’d met.

“Hi, Dean. It’s been a while.”

“Victor! Are you…? Did you…?” Dean stammered.

Seemingly in answer to his questions, Henriksen flickered.

A ghost then, Dean thought.

“I didn't survive... if that's what you're asking.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I know you are.”

“Look, if we'd known Lilith was coming—“

“You wouldn't have left half a dozen innocent people in that police station to die in your place. You did this to me. It was your fault. She was after you, you and your brother, and I paid the price. You left us there to die!”

He grabbed Dean by the shoulders and threw him across the room. Dean landed heavily on the corner of the tub, feeling the impact on his tailbone. He reached for Dean again, and Dean noticed a mark on Henriksen’s hand. It looked like a burn. Before he could move or try to resist, Henriksen had him flying though the air at the opposite wall. Henriksen gripped Dean’s shoulders and rammed his head into the porcelain sink. Exquisite pain erupted in Dean’s head, blurring his vision and making nausea roll in his stomach. Henriksen pulled Dean back, and prepared for another go when the blast of a shotgun ripped through the room and Henriksen was blown away in a spray of rock salt.

Bobby stood in the doorway with his sawn-off aimed into the center of the room. “You okay, Dean?”

“Yeah, just peachy.”

He got to his feet, rubbing his injured tailbone and followed Bobby back into the library. He took a seat on the couch and Bobby sat on the edge of the desk.

“So, who was that?”

“Henriksen,” Dean said. “The Fed that made catching me and Sam his whole bucket list. I got him killed back in Colorado.”

Bobby scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah, I remember that, though I remember Lilith being the one that did the killing, not you.”

Dean shrugged. “Just another to add to the list of people I killed.”

Bobby looked at him and Dean had the impression he was seeing right through him. “You didn’t get Sam killed, Dean,” he said softly.

Dean raised his hands. “I really don’t want to talk about it, Bobby.”

Bobby huffed out a breath. “Fine. So, this Henriksen want something?”

“Other than beating my ass to a bloody pulp, I don’t think so. He didn’t say anything that would give the game away. What are you thinking?”

“Well, Bates, Jed and R.C all looked like they were preparing to take out ghosts when they were killed. They were loaded with salt rounds.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, your friend Olivia had a salt line laid down, too.”

“Looks like the ghosts are the ones doing the killing, through why they’d do that.”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Well, we better figure it out. Because given what just happened, it looks like you’re next in line. I’ve got some books in the basement to hunt out. You should come with. There’s something I want to show you.”

Dean was sure whatever was in the basement was important to Bobby, but he couldn’t seem to muster any enthusiasm. He followed Bobby through the hall and down some steps into the basement. There were stacks of boxes an old trunk against the wall, but Bobby bypassed them and made his way to a heavy metal door instead. He swung it open and Dean followed him into a large circular room. He looked around and let out a heavy breath in spite of himself. Spread across the walls and floor were pentagrams and devil’s traps and sigils Dean didn’t even have a name for. On the ceiling was a huge fan with a devil’s trap in the vent. There were racks of weapons lining the walls and a desk with what looked like a CB radio on it.

“Solid iron. Completely coated in salt. One-hundred percent ghost-proof.,” Bobby said proudly.

“You built a panic room.”

Bobby shrugged self-deprecatingly. “I had a weekend off. Anyway,” he fixed Dean with a glare, “you’re going to stay down here while I go have myself a little research party. See if I can work out why the ghosts are all twitchy.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “I am?”

“Yes, you are. Like I said, it’s ghost-proof, so if your buddy Henriksen comes back, he’ll have to stand in the doorway and point.”

“I’m not gonna—“

“Yes you are,” Bobby said firmly.

Dean dropped down onto the edge of the cot at the side of the room and sighed. “Fine, but do me a favor. Bring the books down here and we can look together.”

“Because you’re such a research aficionado.”

“Just do it, Bobby. Henrikson might be after me, but who’s to say there’s no one coming for you, too.”

Bobby nodded his grudging acceptance. “Fine, I’ll be right back.” He disappeared through the door and Dean heard his heavy footsteps on the wooden steps. He planted his palms on his knees and scuffed his heels against the concrete floor. He felt like a child put in a timeout. He looked around the room and he had to admit to being impressed. He’d never thought about anything like this, not that he had anywhere to build one. Sam would have gotten a real kick out of the place.

Suddenly, Dean heard a strangled cry from up the stairs and a jangling as something metal hit the floor. He grabbed a gun from the rack then raced out of the room and up the stairs. On the floor in the middle of the library was an iron poker.

“Bobby!” he shouted, but there was no response.

He raced from room to room, shouting Bobby’s name, but he saw no sign of him. Then, as his panic reached a new high, he felt the room suddenly grow colder.

“Come out, come out, whoever you are,” Dean sang.

“Dean Winchester. Still so bossy.”

Dean spun around and saw a young woman with mousy, shoulder-length hair and a pretty heart-shaped face. Dean was sure he knew her, but he couldn’t think who she was.

“You don't recognize me?” she asked. “This is what I looked like before that demon cut off my hair and dressed me like a slut.”

It was her voice that did it, hearing it a second time made the name come to him. She had changed. The last time he’d seen her, her hair had been lighter and her clothes wouldn’t have looked out of place at Hooters. Now she was dressed more demurely.

“Meg?”

“Hi.”

She stepped forward and Dean raised the gun.

“It's okay, I'm not a demon.”

“You're the girl the demon possessed.”

She nodded. “Meg Masters. Nice to finally talk to you when I'm not, you know, choking on my own blood.”

She took a step closer and Dean aimed the gun at her heart.

She held up her hands. “It's okay. Seriously, I'm just a college girl. Sorry—was. I was walking home one night and got jumped by all this smoke. Next thing you know, I'm a prisoner... “—she put a hand to her temple—“in here. Now, I was awake. I had to watch while she murdered people.”

Dean swallowed thickly. “I'm sorry.”

“Oh, yeah? So sorry you had me thrown off a building?”

“Well, we thought—“

“No, you didn't think!” she said angrily. “I kept waiting, praying! I was trapped in there, screaming at you! ‘Just help me, please!’ You're supposed to help people, Dean. Why didn't you help me?”

“I'm sorry.”

“Stop saying you're sorry!” she snarled, whipping out a hand and striking him across the jaw. The force of the punch knocked him to the floor.

“Meg. Meg...” He held up a hand. “We didn't know.”

She kicked him in the gut and he curled in on himself.

“No... You just attacked. Did you ever think there was a girl in here? No. You just charged in, slashing and burning. You think you're some kind of hero?”

“No, I don't.”

She grabbed the front of his shirt and dragged him up to her face. “You're damn right. Do you have any idea what it's like to be ridden for months by pure evil while your family has no idea what happened to you?”

“We did the best we could.”

She shoved him back to the floor and kicked him again. He tried to crawl away, but she came after him.

“It wasn't just me, Dean. I had a sister. A little sister. She worshipped me. You know how little siblings are, right? How they'll do anything for you.”

Dean nodded mutely. He knew all too well what kind of sacrifice a sibling could make for another. He had done it for Sam, and then Sam had done it for him.

Meg continued, ignoring his bright eyes. “She was never the same after I disappeared. She just... she just got lost. And when my body was lying in the morgue beat-up and broken...”

Dean groaned. “Meg.”

“Do you know what that did to her? She killed herself!”

She kicked him in the stomach once again. His breath whooshed out of him and he moaned.

“Because of you, Dean! Because all you were thinking about was your family, your revenge, and your demons! Fifty words of Latin a little sooner and I'd still be alive. My baby sister would still be alive. That blood is on your hands, Dean!”

“You’re right,” Dean said, crawling away from her, toward his fallen gun. He grabbed at it and rolled onto his back, pointing the weapon up.

“Come on, Dean, did your brain get french-fried in Hell? You can't shoot me with bullets.”

“I'm not shooting you.” He took aim at the thin chain holding the chandelier to the ceiling. He took the shot, and the chandelier came crashing down, dispersing Meg into wisps of smoke. “Iron.”

He struggled to his feet and grabbed the poker from the floor. “Bobby!”

He heard a muffled moan in response, and praying he wasn’t too late he flung open the door of the hall closet. Bobby was there with two small girls. They were grubby looking and their identical green dresses were tattered and stained. One had a hand over Bobby’s mouth and the other had a knife pressed to Bobby’s throat. Dean reacted instinctively. He swung the poker through the one holding the knife and she dissipated, her sister, look one long look at Dean’s murderous expression and she flickered out of existence.

“Good timing,” Bobby said hoarsely.

xxx

“So, the little girls…” Dean said, ten minutes later when they each had a glass of whiskey in hand.

“It was years ago,” Bobby said. “I’d only been hunting a couple of years. It was a werewolf. It got them both before I could save them.”

“Meg and Henriksen, they were people I should have saved too,” Dean said. “You think this is a revenge gig?”

“Could be,” Bobby said. “But why now and why all of them at once?”

Dean shrugged and then something occurred to him. “There was a mark, kinda like a brand. I saw it on Henriksen and Meg.”

“Show me,” Bobby said, holding out a pad of paper.

Dean was no artist, but he managed a recognizable copy of the mark he’d seen.

Bobby looked it over. “I’ve seen this before.” He moved over to the bookshelf and started grabbing books. Just then, the lights flickered. They exchanged a look and Dean grabbed a pile of the books Bobby was stacking on the desk.

“Basement?”

“Basement.”

They raced out of the room and down to the panic room. Dean stacked the books on the desk and then walked the circumference of the room, taking in the weapons and boxes of C-Rations. He made a few passes and then dropped down onto the cot again. Bobby seemed absorbed in the book he was reading, and Dean didn’t want to distract him, so he stayed silent for? and waited.

Eventually, Bobby smacked a hand down on the book and looked up. “Found it!”

“Found what?” Dean asked. 

“The symbol you saw—the brand on the ghosts.”

“Yeah?”

“Mark of the Witness.”

“Witness? Witness to what?”

“The unnatural. None of them died what you'd call ordinary deaths. See, these ghosts, they were forced to rise. They woke up in agony. They were like rabid dogs. It ain't their fault. Someone rose them... on purpose.”

“Who?”

“Do I look like I know?” Bobby asked. “But whoever it was used a spell so powerful it left a mark, a brand on their souls. Whoever did this had big plans. It's called "the rising of the witnesses." It figures into an ancient prophecy.”

”What book is that prophecy from?”

“Well, the widely distributed version's just for tourists, you know. But long story short—Revelations. This is a sign, Dean.”

“A sign of what?”

Bobby leaned back in his seat and drew a heavy breath. “The apocalypse.”

“Apocalypse?” Dean gaped at him. “The apocalypse, apocalypse? The four horsemen, Pestilence, five dollar-a-gallon-gas apocalypse?

“That's the one. The rise of the witnesses is a mile marker.” He flicked through the pages of his book. “I’ve got a spell to send the witnesses back to rest. Should work.”

“Should? Great.”

“If I translate it correctly. I think I got everything we need here at the house.”

“Any chance you got everything we need here in this room?” Dean asked hopefully. He really didn’t want to run into any more of the crazy ghost gang. It might not be their fault, rabid Bobby called them, but the punches they laid hit hard.

“So, you thought our luck was gonna start now all of a sudden? Spell's got to be cast over an open fire.”

Dean sighed. “The fireplace in the library.”

“Bingo.”

They made their way out of the room and to the hall and then stopped short. There was a heavy-set man with curly hair sitting on the steps. Dean recognized him at once as the inept Ronald Reznick, who they’d met on a shapeshifter hunt a couple of years back. Without missing a beat, he raised his shotgun and sent a spray of rock salt into him, blasting him away.

They made it to the library and Dean set a fire in the grate while Bobby laid down a salt line. Bobby raced up the stairs and came down laden with a heavy box.

The two girls Dean had saved Bobby from before appeared just outside the salt line and started to speak.

“Bobby. You walked right by us while that monster ate us all up.”

“You could have saved us.”

Dean aimed his gun and took the shot. It didn’t feel good, shooting at children, but it did the job. They disappeared.

“Kitchen. Cutlery drawer. It's got a false bottom. Hemlock, opium, wormwood,” Bobby ordered.

Dean ran into the kitchen and pulled out the drawer. He found the ingredients but before he could take them back to Bobby, a hand reached out and grabbed him and the doors into the library slammed closed.

“Dean!” Bobby shouted.

“I'm all right, Bobby! Keep working!” He looked up into the eyes of his attacker. “Victor.”

“Dean.”

Dean straightened. “I know, okay, I know.”

“No. You don't.”

“It's my fault you're dead. I left you behind. And the minute I heard about that explosion, I thought, ‘I should have known.’ I should have protected you.”

Dean reached behind him for the gun but it flew out of his grip and across the room.

“Not so fast. You think you left and Lilith came and we all died in a beautiful blast of white light? If only. Forty-five minutes.” He was speaking through gritted teeth, his fury obvious.

“What?”

“Over forty-five minutes. Lilith said she wanted to have some fun. The secretary was first. Remember her? Nancy, the virgin. Lilith filleted Nancy's skin off piece by piece. Right in front of us, made us watch. Nancy never stopped screaming.”

Dean’s mind flashed a vision of the sweet, innocent secretary at the station, Nancy. She had been pure, a virgin still. She had her whole life ahead of her, and Lilith snuffed her life about because of him. She wouldn’t have been there if they hadn’t been so stupid as to get caught out by Bela.

“No!”

Henriksen nodded with satisfaction. “I was the last.

“Victor...”

Dean could hear Bobby pounding on the doors, but it was too late. Henriksen was already in motion. He thrust his hand into Dean’s chest, almost all the way though, and Dean felt him gripping his heart. In response to the pressure, his heart pounded faster than ever. Every thump resonated in Dean’s head, and he wondered, with each beat, if it would be his last. He didn’t fight it. There was no fighting it. There was also no fear. He wasn’t giving up exactly, he wasn’t destroying Sam’s sacrifice, this was his time to die, and he was okay with that.

Suddenly, there was an almighty crash and the wood of the doors burst in. A small hole was made in the wood and Bobby forced the shotgun through it and blasted the air with rock salt. Henriksen disappeared and Dean slid to the floor, clutching at his chest, mingled shame and disappointment rushing through him. Shame because, despite what he had told himself, Sam would have been ashamed of him, and disappointment as he had been so close to getting his release.

Bobby disregarded him as he scooped the ingredients out of the drawer and ran back into the library.

Dean struggled to his feet and grabbed up the shotgun from the floor. In the library, Bobby had the ingredients in the bowl and he was chanting in latin. The windows flew open and a wind blew through the room. The salt lines were blown away and the ghosts appeared en mass. Ronald, Henriksen, Meg and the creepy twins, they all appeared and Dean blew them away one by one, only pausing to reload, but they reappeared again and again. Dean ran out of salt rounds, and he was forced to resort to the iron poker to deal with the ghosts. Then Bobby’s chanting broke off, and Dean turned to see Meg standing behind him with her hand shoved into his back. Bobby groaned in pain and the bowl he had been holding dropped onto the desk. Dean reacted without thinking; he grabbed the bowl and threw it onto the fire. The flames burned blue and a pulse of energy ripped through the room. Dean’s eyes closed against the light and when he opened them, Bobby was kneeling on the floor.

“Bobby, you okay?” Dean panted as he dropped to his knees beside him.

Bobby nodded. “I’ll be good. Just give me a minute.”

Dean sat back on his haunches and tried to catch his breath.

“I’ll be fine,” Bobby said breathlessly. “But you might not. You and I are going to have a talk.”

“Bobby…”

“Don’t you _Bobby_ me.” Bobby pushed himself to his feet and stared down at Dean. “I saw you in there, when Henriksen had you by the pumper. You weren’t fighting.”

“How was I supposed to fight a ghost without a weapon?” Dean asked.

Bobby shook his head and breathed heavily. “Okay. You didn’t have a weapon, but I saw your face. You weren’t fighting in here,”—he patted his chest over his heart—“where it matters.”

Dean felt like a child with Bobby staring down at him like that, so he pushed himself to his feet.

Bobby got to his feet and grabbed Dean’s shoulders. Yanking him around so they were face to face, he asked, “Are you trying to die?”

“No, I would never…”

Bobby stared into his eyes, and Dean knew he saw the truth there. He wasn’t trying to die, but he wasn’t fighting to live either.

“Sam wouldn’t want—“

“I don’t care!” Dean said harshly. “You don’t understand what it’s like for me.”

“I don’t understand?” Bobby dropped his hands from Dean’s shoulders and his fists balled. Dean braced himself for a punch, but it didn’t come. Instead, Bobby turned away from him and spoke through gritted teeth. “Sam is dead, and that hurts. He was my boy and he’s gone, and nothing you nor I can do will fix that. But what we can do is fight. You saw them people tonight. They were the people we couldn’t save. Think of all the people that weren’t here tonight because we _did_ save them. You and I have a choice to make. We can honor Sam by doing what he would want us to do, fighting, or we can go give up and let his legacy be one of death and pain. Now, what do you choose?”

Dean turned away from his surrogate father and stared out of the window. The truth was that, as much as he wanted to honor Sam, he didn’t think he had the strength to do it.

“I don’t know, Bobby. I just don’t know.”

There was a strange rustling sound and a hand rested on Dean’s shoulder and he turned, expecting to be met with Bobby’s disappointment, but it was Castiel standing there.

“You,” he said, “are going to need to come with me.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

 

Dean tried to pull away from Castiel, but his grip was too strong. He had one look at Bobby’s shocked expression and then he was being dragged away through swirling colors. His eyes squeezed closed and he braced himself for he didn’t know what. He landed heavily and a jolt radiated up his legs, making him sway. Castiel steadied him as he opened his eyes. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light coming through the window, and when they did, his heart contracted painfully in his chest. He knew this place.

His senses were overwhelmed with the scent of baby powder and something unidentifiable that made him think of home. The room was small, with pale blue walls and dark wooden furniture. There was a changing station against one wall and under the window, there was a crib, and in the crib, there was a baby.

“Sammy,” Dean breathed. He rounded on Castiel. “Why am I here?”

“I want you to watch.”

At that moment, two people appeared in the doorway, a small child in his mother’s arms. Dean absorbed the sight of the woman, taking in her long blonde hair and sweet smile.

“Mom” he moaned.

“Come on,” his mother said. “Let’s say goodnight to your brother.”

She set his younger self on the floor and he raced across the room to his brother. He bent over the crib side and kissed his forehead. “Night, Sam.”

Neither of them seemed to notice the two men standing beside the crib, which made Dean sure they couldn’t. Whatever Castiel had done to bring him here, hadn’t been in the physical sense. He was a ghost in his own past.

His mother bent over too pressed a kiss to Sam’s forehead, smoothing back his fuzz of hair. “Goodnight, love.”

“Hey, Dean.” A man appeared at the door. He looked drastically different to the last time Dean had seen him. He was smiling as his young son ran into his arms. The dark shadowed eyes and haunted expression that had been staples of Dean’s older childhood years were absent. This was John Winchester without the weight of his wife’s death hanging over him.

“Daddy!”

Dean watched as John swept his younger self into his arms with a beaming smile. “So what do you think? You think Sammy's ready to toss around a football yet?”

“No, Daddy,” his younger self said with amusement.

“No?”

Mary Winchester passed them, laying a hand on her son’s back. “You got him?”

John nodded. “I got him.” He stared across the room at his youngest son. “Sweet dreams, Sam.”

“Hold on,” Dean said. “I know this night. This is the night my mom…”

“This is the night your mother dies,” Castiel said solemnly.

“This is great!” Dean didn’t care if this man was an angel a demon or Santa Claus. He had brought Dean back. He could save her, he could save them all. If Mary never died, John would never have become a hunter. If John wasn’t a hunter, he would never have gone after the yellow-eyed demon, and Dean wouldn’t have been so messed up. John wouldn’t have to make a deal to save his life. Sam wouldn’t have died in Cold Oak and Dean wouldn’t have made a deal to bring him back… Sam wouldn’t have made his own deal to save Dean. They would have a nice, normal apple pie life. Sam would go to college and Dean would… Who cared what Dean did as long as he had his family?

“Castiel, man, I don’t know what to say,” he said breathlessly. “This is…”

“This is not your salvation,” Castiel said.

“What?” Dean staggered back a step under the force of his shock. “What do you mean?”

“We are not here to save. We are here to witness.”

“Witness what? My mom being burned alive by that yellow-eyed son of a bitch?

“I will not make you witness that,” Castiel said. “I will take you away before that happens.”

“You can’t! I have to save her, all of us.”

“You cannot change the past, Dean. Whatever happens, happens. There is nothing to be done.”

Dean raked his hands through his hair. He didn’t care what Castiel said. He was going to change this. He _had to_ change this. He moved over to the side of the crib and looked down at his baby brother. “I’m going to save you, Sammy.”

The baby gurgled happily. Oblivious to Dean’s promise.

Then something happened. The small lamp on the shelf that cast a dim light over the room flickered and the mobile began to turn of its own accord. The clock on the wall ticked and then froze.

They were no longer alone. A man in a long coat was standing beside Dean at the crib.

There was movement out on the hall, and his mother appeared again. “John is he hungry?”

The man turned and shushed Mary, and she mumbled, “okay,” and then turned and left.

The man at the crib turned back to look at Sam, and Dean caught sight of his eyes, his yellow eyes.

“You bastard!” Dean shouted, lunging at the man. He tried to wrap his fingers around the demon’s neck, but his hands moved right through him as if he was made of smoke.

“We are here to witness only,” Castiel said calmly.

“Witness!” Dean bellowed. “He’s about to kill my mother. How can you stand there and let this happen?”

“I have no choice.”

Dean was impotent in his rage, forced to stand and watch as the man ran his fingernail over his wrist, parting the skin. The blood welled in the wound and the demon moved his hand so it was poised above Sam. The blood dripped down into Sam’s open mouth.

“What the hell?” Dean said. “What’s he doing? Does this mean… Does this mean Sam has demon blood in him?”

Castiel nodded serenely. “He did.”

Suddenly, Mary appeared at the door again and the demon turned to face her. An incomprehensible look of recognition crossed her face and she gasped. “It’s you!”

“She knew him?” Dean asked.

Without answering, Castiel laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder and then they were moving again. They came to a halt outside the house they had just left, but time had passed. Now, the house was in flames and firefighters were battling the flames. John Winchester sat on the hood of the Impala with Sam In his arms and Dean leaning against his side.

“The things you just saw were the result of a demon deal,” Castiel said. “Ten years before this night, your father died at the hands of the demon Azazel.”

“What? No he didn’t. He can’t have.”

“He did,” Castiel said. “Your mother, who grew up in a hunting family, made a deal to save his life.”

“You mean what just happened, Sammy getting dosed with demon blood, she knew about it?”

Castiel shook his head. “She didn’t know what would happen. Her deal was that in ten years she was to allow the demon to come into your home and remain uninterrupted. As you know, she did interrupt, and her life was forfeit.”

Dean’s mind was reeling. His mother had made a deal. It really was a Winchester tradition. Every one of them had done it and it had cost them their lives.

Dean cast his father and his brother a look of longing and then turned to Castiel. “Okay, I’ve seen it. Can we go now?”

Castiel nodded, and a moment later, they were moving again. Dean had expected to return to Bobby’s place, but Castiel had brought him to a crappy looking motel. It was like a hundred others he had spent his life in, with stained, threadbare carpets and anachronistic wallpaper.

Then Dean saw the occupants of the room and the wallpaper suddenly made sense. His younger self was there again, and so was Sam, except Sam was bigger now than the baby he’d seen last time. Now he had to be around a year old and he was standing on his unsteady feet.

The younger Dean was sitting in front of him and he had his arms raised out in front of him, ready to embrace his brother. “C’mon Sammy. You can do it,” he said enthusiastically.

Sam’s eyebrows pinched together with concentration as he raised one wobbly foot from the floor and took a step towards his brother.

Young Dean whooped with glee. “That’s it. One more!”

The baby took another step and fell into his triumphant brother’s arms. Young Dean caught him and hugged him close. “You did it, Sammy!”

The motel door opened and Dean turned to see his father stepping into the room. _This_ was the John Winchester Dean knew. His brow was furrowed in his permanent frown and his expression was dour.

“He did it, Dad!” Dean said excitedly, catching sight of his father. “He walked two whole steps.”

John smiled grimly and crossed the room. He ruffled Sam’s hair and said with forced enthusiasm, “Well done, Sam. Two steps on your birthday.”

Before Dean could ask Castiel anything, they were moving again. When they came to a stop, they were in front of a motel complex. Even as he turned and took in the dusty white walls and cars parked outside the rooms, a door opened and his younger self walked out. He had aged about four years and he was carrying a backpack Dean remembered with fondness. It had a picture of _Big Foot_ on the front. Dean remembered how he had to beg his father for it for his birthday that year. John had pointed out again and again that it was stupid as Big Foot didn’t exist, but that was half the fun for Dean.

Behind his younger self came Sam. He was a child now, aged about five, and he was so different, even though he was sporting ‘The Face’.

“I don’t wanna go, Dean,” he whined. “Why can’t I stay with Miss. Kelly?”

“Because you’re a big boy now, and big boys go to school,” Dean mouthed the words along with his younger self. He remembered this day. It was Sam’s first day of school, and unlike the geek that he grew to be, he really didn’t want to go.

The adult Dean smiled fondly and turned to Castiel. “Kelly was the receptionist for the motel. Sam was a little in love with her because she gave him candy. He used to…” He trailed off as realization came to him. He was sharing stories of Sam with the angel that had the power to save him but wouldn’t. What was he thinking?

“He used to what?” Castiel asked.

Dean shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.” He turned his attention back to his brother. Sam had stopped in the middle of the parking lot and he was refusing to budge.

“C’mon, Sammy, we’re gonna be late,” his younger self said. “You'll like school. They’ll be lots of kids to play with.”

“What if they’re mean,” Sam asked in a tremulous voice.

Young Dean smirked. “Then you take their names and I’ll come fix ‘em.”

“You promise?”

Dean nodded and his adult counterpart made the vow at the same time as he did. “I promise. No one’s gonna hurt you, Sam. I’ll take care of you.”

They moved again and came to a stop to a scene Dean instantly recognized. “Aww, man,” he groaned. “I don’t want to see this again.”

“It’s important,” Castiel said.

Dean knew that already. It was a watershed moment in Sam’s life. One that, even at the time, Dean wished he could take back, preserving Sam’s innocence a little longer.

His twelve-year-old self was sitting on the edge of the bed with a can of soda in his hand. Sam was sitting on the opposite bed. “I know why you keep a gun under your pillow,” he said solemnly.

The younger Dean lifted his pillow to check the gun was still there. “No, you don’t. Stay out of my stuff.”

Sam continued mercilessly. “And I know why we lay salt down everywhere we go.”

“No, you don’t. Shut up.” Dean remembered the panic that had gripped him as Sam had said that. He had known in that moment that his job of protecting Sam had failed, as he knew the truth. Dean had wanted him to stay innocent just a little longer.

Sam leaned over the bed and pulled something out from under the mattress. He tossed it onto the bedside table and young Dean blanched as he caught sight of his father’s journal.

He jumped to his feet. “Where’d you get that? That’s Dad’s! He’s gonna kick your ass for reading that.”

“Are monsters real?” And there it was. The question Dean wished he could give any other answer to but the truth.

He tried to bluster his way through it. “What? You’re crazy.”

“Tell me,” Sam demanded.

Young Dean looked away and the adult Dean remembered the pain of indecision in that moment as he deliberated between telling the truth and keeping Sam protected a little longer.

”I swear, if you ever tell Dad I told you any of this, I will end you.”

“Promise.”

Dean sat down again. “Well, the first thing you have to know is we have the coolest dad in the world. He’s a superhero.”

Sam looked doubtful. “He is?”

“Yeah.” Young Dean sighed. “Monsters are real. Dad fights them. He’s fighting them right now.”

Sam chewed his lip, deep in thought. “But Dad said the monsters under my bed weren’t real.”

Young Dean smiled. “That’s ’cause he had already checked under there. But yeah, they’re real. Almost everything’s real.”

“Is Santa real?”

“No.”

“If monsters are real, then they could get us.” Sam eyes widened and he looked scared. “They could get me.”

“Dad’s not gonna let them get you.”

“But what if they get him?”

Dean huffed a laugh, caught in the delusion that his father was superhuman. Dean had almost believed that until the day his father had died. “They aren’t gonna get Dad. Dad’s, like, the best.”

“I read in Dad’s book that they got Mom.”

Young Dean sighed heavily. “It’s complicated, Sam.“

“If they got Mom, they can get Dad, and if they can get Dad, they can get us.”

“It’s not like that.” Young Dean moved to sit on the other bed, beside his brother. “Okay? Dad’s fine. We’re fine. Trust me. You okay?”

Sam looked away. “Yeah.”

“Hey, Dad’s gonna be here for Christmas. Just like he always is.”

Sam was visibly fighting back the tears. “I just want to go to sleep, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Sam lay down on the bed and curled into himself. His tears began to fall and his breaths became shaky.

“It’ll all be better when you wake up. You’ll see. Promise.”

The adult Dean sat down on the edge of the bed beside his weeping brother and reached out as if to touch Sam, but then he realized he couldn’t, and his heart broke a little.

He laid a hand over his own chest, pressing the weight of the amulet he wore against his skin. It was that night that Sam had given it to him. It was supposed to be a gift for his father, but Sam had given it to Dean. He’d never told Sam, but that simple action had meant the world to him.

Castiel reached out and Dean was pulled away from his weeping brother and dragged into another place and time.

He didn’t recognize the place at first outside of realizing it was a school, one of many they had attended over the years, and then he spotted a gaggle of children grouped around a heavy-set kid that had just pushed over a younger boy.

“Got to watch where you're going, man,” the heavy-set boy said.

Despite the fact he was a ghost in this place and time, Dean hurried toward the kids, hoping to protect the younger kid from the bully. He had just reached them when another kid pushed through the crowd and Dean felt a jolt of recognition.

“Leave him alone, Dirk,” Sam said.

The bigger kid, Dirk, rounded on Sam. “You never learn, do you, midget?”

Sam addressed his friend. “Get to the bus, Barry.”

The young kid ran off and Sam tried to follow but Dirk shoved at Sam’s back, knocking him to the floor.

“What's the matter?” Dirk asked in a mocking voice. “You scared? Don't worry. I'll go easy on you this time. Come on, Lose-chester. Let’s see what you got. Come on, freak! Freak!”

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean muttered. “Take him down.”

As if he had heard his brother’s command, Sam jumped to his feet and launched himself at Dirk, shoving him back. Dirk clearly hadn’t had his power as school bully challenged in a long time, if ever, and he looked completely taken aback at the fact Sam was the one to fight back. He swung a fist through the air, but Sam dodged him, dropping down and landing a hard punch in Dirk’s gut. The kid’s breath rushed out of him in a whoosh and he made to punch Sam again, but Sam was too fast. With lightning quick moves, learned through hours of roughhousing with Dean under his father’s eyes, he pounded into Dirk. For every attempted punch from Dirk, Sam was there, landing one hard. He kicked Dirk’s knee, dropping him to the ground.

He looked down at the bully with open loathing in his eyes. With one last punch, he dropped Dirk out on his back. “You're not tough. You're just a jerk. Dirk the jerk."

The children surrounding them took up the chant, and “Dirk the jerk” became their anthem. They shouted it at the boy even as he scrambled to his feet and ran away.

Dean watched as anger was overcome by exultation in his brother’s eyes. As a child, Sam hated violence, but in that moment, he relished the other children’s chants and became a hero.

Again, there was the dizzying sensation of being moved and when he opened his eyes, he saw his younger self standing by the Impala in an empty field. A younger Sam pulled a crate of fireworks out of the trunk and beamed at his brother.

“I remember this,” Dean said. “It’s fourth of July, ninety-six.”

Castiel nodded. “You burn down a field, I believe.”

Dean nodded happily. This was one of his favorite memories. His father had been off on a hunt and Sam and Dean had blown their entire food budget on fireworks.

“Got your lighter?” Sam asked, holding up a firework

Dean watched his younger self pull out a Zippo lighter from his pocket and set light to the fuse. He lit one for himself and he and Sam stood side by side holding the fireworks out beside them. There were popping sounds and sparks flew into the air.

When the fireworks died out, Sam turned to his brother. “Dad would never let us do anything like this. Thanks, Dean. This is great.”

He threw his arms around his brother, and Dean almost felt he could feel the embrace once again. Sam hadn’t held him like that again for a long time. He’d thought he was too old. Dean hadn’t said it, he had man points to protect, but he’d missed it.  

When they settled in a new time and place, Dean looked around, trying to place his surroundings, but he didn’t recognize anything. It was a bar, with music playing from a jukebox, but not so loud speech was indecipherable. The place smelled of spilled beer and ladies’ perfume.

“Where are we?” he asked Castiel. “I don’t recognize it.”

“That’s because you have not been here before,” Castiel said cryptically.

Dean was going to question him further, but then he caught sight of his brother, and his attention was diverted. It was Sam as an adult. Not as old as he had been when Dean last saw him, maybe five years out. He still had some soft roundness of youth in his face, and his eyes were alight with excitement. Beside him was another young man with blond hair and an impish expression.

“C’mon, Sam,” the man said. “I want you to meet someone.”

Sam looked reluctant, but he followed his friend through the crowd to the bar. There was a woman standing at the bar, with long, wavy blonde hair. As she turned, Dean recognized her at once.

“Jess,” he said sadly.

“Sam, this here’s my good friend Jessica,” the man said. “Jess, this is Sam. He’s pre-law.”

Jessica smiled and Dean understood why his brother had been so enamored with her. She was beautiful and her pure life force radiated from her.

Sam ducked his head with a smile. “Nice to meet you, Jess.”

She beamed at him. “You, too, Sam.”

Dean felt a lump form in his throat. This was the life Sam should have had, college and Jess and friends, not hunting, deals and death.

When Castiel laid a hand on his shoulder, he knew exactly where they were going to come out, and he couldn’t do a thing to stop it.

The room was dark, the only dim illumination coming from a streetlight outside the window. Two figures were fighting, attempting to land blows and blocking punches with ease. They were old partners at this dance. Eventually, Dean pinned Sam to the floor.

“Whoa, easy, tiger.”

“Dean?”

The younger Dean laughed.

“You scared the crap out of me!”

He grinned down at his brother. “That's 'cause you're out of practice.”

Sam flipped them so Dean was pinned to the floor.

“Or not,” The younger Dean said. “Get off of me.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sam asked.

Dean placed his hand on his brother shoulders. “Well, I was looking for a beer.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Okay. All right. We gotta talk,” Dean said.

He remembered that night like it was yesterday, when it had really been over three years ago. He didn’t need to keep watching to know what would happen next. He would tell Sam about John’s hunting trip and guilt him into leaving so he wouldn’t be alone. Because of Dean’s selfishness, Sam would leave Jessica unprotected and she would die. Sam would be dragged back into the hunting world that would eventually lead to his death.

“I don’t need to see this, Castiel,” he said.

Castiel eyed him for a moment and then nodded. “Perhaps you don’t.”

They moved once again, and Dean found himself in a dim room with a familiar and devastating sight in front of him. It was after Sam had been killed by Jake. He was lying on a bare mattress, dead, and Dean’s slightly younger self was sitting in a chair looking down at him and speaking softly.

“You know, when we were little— you couldn't been more than five—you just started asking questions. How come we didn't have a mom? Why do we always have to move around? Where'd Dad go when he'd take off for days at a time? I remember I begged you—‘Quit asking, Sammy. Man, you don't want to know.’ I just wanted you to be a kid... Just for a little while longer.”

Dean spoke up, overriding his younger self’s monologue. “I don’t need to see this. I’ve lived this already.”

His younger self got to his feet and made for the door. Dean knew where he was going, to the crossroad to make the deal.

“But you are not seeing the truth I am trying to impart,” Castiel said. “This is where you went wrong.”

Dean’s hands fisted at his sides. “You think I should have left him dead?”

Castiel nodded serenely. “If you had, so much could have been avoided.”

Dean spoke through gritted teeth. “I couldn’t let him be dead. I just couldn’t.”

“Why?” Castiel asked. “Because it wasn’t the right thing for him or because it wasn’t the right thing for you? Your brother was in Heaven. You tore him out for your own sake.”

“I didn’t…” Dean trailed off. He couldn’t lie. He had suspected Sam was in Heaven when he made that deal. He hadn’t done it only to save Sam, he had done it to save himself. He needed his brother with him, and that was what had carried him to the crossroads. “I needed him,” he admitted.

“I know you did,” Castiel said. “But because you needed him, things were set in motion that we are now fighting to stop.”

“The apocalypse?” Dean asked. “Is that for real?”

“It is. The rise of the witnesses was one of the first seals.”

“You mean you knew all about it? Well, thanks a lot for the angelic assistance. You know, I almost got my heart ripped out of my chest!”

“And I can imagine how much you would have hated that,” Castiel said sardonically. “Isn’t that what all this is about? You have been searching for a way to end yourself since your buried your brother.”

“Bobby almost died!” Dean said, disregarding the rest of Castiel’s words. “You say you’re an angel. I thought angels were supposed to be guardians. Fluffy wings, halos—you know, Michael Landon. Not dicks.”

“Read the Bible. Angels are warriors of God. I'm a soldier.”

“Yeah? Then, why didn't you fight?”

“I'm not here to perch on your shoulder. I had larger concerns.”

“Concerns? There were people getting torn to shreds down here! And, by the way, while all this is going on, where the hell is your boss, huh, if there is a God?”

“There's a God.”

“I'm not convinced. 'Cause if there's a God, what the hell is he waiting for, huh? Genocide? Monsters roaming the earth? The freaking apocalypse? At what point does he lift a damn finger and help the poor bastards that are stuck down here? Where was he when my brother got dragged to Hell?”

“The Lord works—”

“If you say "mysterious ways," so help me, I will kick your ass.”

Castiel sighed. “There are big things afoot. This is why I am showing you these things.”

“You think a trip down memory-kick-your-ass-emotionally-lane is the way to get me on your side.”

“That is not why we are here,” Castiel said. “I will show you. There is more you must see.”

Dean sighed and waited as he was moved once more. They came to a stop in a seedy looking motel room. There were whiskey bottles dotted around the room and the air stank of liquor and vomit. Sam was there, sitting back against the headboard, and there was a woman Dean didn’t recognize. She was petite, with long dark hair and a deceptively innocent face. She was kneeling on the bed beside Sam holding a silver flask in one hand.

“Just try it,” she crooned. “You want to be strong enough to kill Lilith, don’t you?” With those words, Dean divined who the woman was, despite the fact she had taken a new meat suit, Ruby.

Sam nodded and reached for the flask.

“No” Sam!” Dean bellowed, but Sam couldn’t hear him. He didn’t know what was in that flask, but he knew it had to be something bad.

“That’s it,” Ruby said, with open lust in her eyes. “Just a sip.”

Sam brought the flask to his lips and tilted it back. His eyes widened as whatever was in the bottle touched his tongue, and he jerked the flask away. As he did, a trickle of the contents dripped down his chin, and Dean gagged.

“Blood! He’s going to drink her blood?”

Castiel shook his head. “Watch.”

Dean turned his attention back to what was happening in front of him. Sam had pushed Ruby away and she’d fallen to the floor. Sam loomed over her, his lips pressed together in a thin line. With an expression of deepest disgust, he drew back and spat the blood into her face.

She looked up at him with the blood dripping down her cheek. “You’re going to regret that. How will you avenge your brother now?”

Sam snarled. “I won’t need to avenge him. I will save him.”

Dean turned to Castiel. “What’s next?”

“I have one last thing to show you,” Castiel said serenely.

They arrived in a familiar room. It was the room Sam had laid in at Bill’s.

Sam was there, and he was unchanged from the last time Dean saw him except for the fact he was alive. He was squatting down beside his duffel, packing away clothes. On top of the clothes, he laid a wad of maps. Dean caught a glimpse of them, and saw they were marked with red crosses all coinciding with a crossroads. He sighed heavily as he understood the implications. Sam had tried dozens of crossroads, searching for the right demon.

Sam straightened and ran his hands through his hair. His hand came to rest on the amulet laid on his chest. He stared at it for a moment, deep in thought and then his fingers closed over it. He picked up an envelope from the bed and tucked it into his pocket.

He left the room and Dean and Castiel followed him into the kitchen. Ellen was sitting at the kitchen table. She looked up as Sam entered, and smiled sadly.

“Everything’s ready,” Sam said.

“Is there really nothing I can do to change your mind?” Ellen asked.

Sam shook his head. “There really isn’t. I have to do this, Ellen. I have to save him.”

Ellen wiped at her eyes. “I wish there was another way.”

“So do I, so much, but there isn’t. I can’t leave him there. This is our only hope.”

Dean rounded on Castiel. “You hear that? He thinks he had no choice. Why didn’t you stop him?”

“We didn’t know,” Castiel serenely.

Sam drew Dean’s attention again by sitting down at the table opposite Ellen and clasping her hands in his own. “Try to understand. I am doing the right thing here. I know what I am doing, and I have never been so at peace. Everything about this feels right. I’m going to save him.”

“He’ll try to get you back,” Ellen said.

“I hope he doesn’t. This thing could go on forever, us sacrificing ourselves for each other. You have to make sure he knows. I don’t want him to bring me back.”

“You’re going to Hell, Sam. Do you understand what that means?”

Sam nodded. “I do, but I know it will be easier to bear the fires and knives down there than to live in a world in which Dean is suffering for me.”

“Oh, Sam,” Dean moaned. He had no idea. No happy thoughts could save you in the pit. The place was pain and fear and hatred unless you came off the rack, and that was somehow worse.

“We are done,” Castiel said. “Do you want a little longer with your brother?”

Dean shook his head. He couldn’t bear to be around his brother without being able to make contact. There were a hundred things he wanted to say to him, but no way to say them. He looked at his brother one last time, absorbing the exhilaration in his eyes, and turned away.

“I’m done.”

xXx

They arrived in Bobby’s study. The older man was sitting at the desk with his head cradled in his hands. As they arrived, he looked up and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “Dean.”

Dean nodded. “In the flesh.”

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Ask angel-air over here,” Dean said, gesturing to Castiel. “He’s been bouncing me through time and America in his version of my crappiest hits.”

Bobby frowned. “He did what?”

Dean opened his mouth to explain, but Castiel spoke over him. “I was trying to impart a message. Do you see what it was yet?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. No matter how hard I try, I fail Sam one way or another.”

Castiel closed his eyes for a long moment, and when he opened them, he glared at Dean. “No, Dean. I showed you a life well lived. Your brother had a good life and his passing, while tragic for you, was what he wanted.”

Dean shook his head. “He didn’t want Hell. He thought he had no choice.”

“And yet, he went there willingly anyway. That is neither here nor there. There is more you were supposed to see. Do you remember what Ruby did to Sam?”

“Ruby? What’s she got to do with anything?” Bobby asked.

“She tried to get Sam to drink blood,” Dean said and then turned to Castiel. “It was her own blood, right, demon blood?”

Castiel nodded. “She was trying to fuel Sam’s dormant powers. That is the world as it should have been.”

“You mean my brother was supposed to be some kind of vampire?”

“In a way, yes. Archangels have a certain degree of prescience. They saw the world as it should have been long ago, with you and your brother at the helm of a great battle. It was supposed to start and end with blood.”

Dean’s brows pinched together with confusion. “What does that mean?”

“I do not know,” Castiel said. “I am a soldier among many. I take orders much like you once did from your father. I do not know everything I desire to know, but I accept that as my lot. One thing I do know is  that the world is wrong. You were supposed to be raised by angels, and your brother was supposed to live so he could play his part. You _must_ do your part!”

“What is my part?” Dean asked.

“You must fight,” Castiel said. “One seal was broken—”

“Who did the breaking?” Bobby asked, breaking Castiel’s flow of words.

“Lilith. She has a certain sense of humor.”

“But we put those spirits back to rest,” Dean said with satisfaction.

“It doesn't matter. The seal was broken.”

“Why break the seal anyway?” Bobby asked.

“You think of the seals as locks on a door.”

A sick sinking sensation crept through Dean’s gut. “Okay. Last one opens and...”

“Lucifer walks free,” Castiel said calmly.

The sinking sensation in Dean’s gut was replaced by heart clenching fear. “Lucifer? But I thought Lucifer was just a story they told at demon Sunday school. There's no such thing.”

“Three days ago, you thought there was no such thing as me. Why do you think we're here walking among you now for the first time in two thousand years?”

“To stop Lucifer.”

“That's why we've arrived.”

Bobby looked pale. “So when you say apocalypse, you really mean…”

“I mean the genuine end of times,” Castiel said. “And Dean is a vital piece in that war. I showed you those things to make you understand. Your brother lived a life well, and while his passing is painful for you, it is not the end. That is still to come, and you have a role to play.”

Dean shook his head. “I don’t want a part of any of this. I just want my brother back.”

Castiel locked eyes with Dean and Dean got the feeling he was trying to impart some great secret. “You _need_ to play your part. I will return with instructions.” That said, he disappeared with a faint rustling sound.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

 

Dean woke on the tail end of a nightmare, panting and sweating. He threw back the bedclothes and perched on the edge of the bed, raking a hand through his short hair. It was always the same, he went to bed alcohol-sodden and exhausted, but the nightmares greeted him each night. It had been the same thing since his trip down memory kick-your-ass lane with Castiel two weeks before. He was in the pit again, on the rack, broken and bleeding, and Alastair came, making him the offer. Every night he made the same choice, despite the fact he tried with all his being to say no, and he was cut down and handed a blade. He knew who it would be on his rack, it was always him, but as he looked down on Sam’s twisted form, he felt the same sick swooping in his gut. He would beg and plead with Alastair, to let Sam off and for Dean to take his place again, but he was always refused. And then came the worst part, the part that made this something worse than a terrible nightmare. Sam would look up at him with a look of abject despair and say, “But I got you out. How can you choose this when I got you out?”

Shaking his head to dispel the images of his nightmare, he got to his feet and padded barefoot into the bathroom. His hands shook as he turned the faucet and his legs didn’t want to support him as he stepped under the stream of water. He pushed through it though, forcing himself to remain upright long enough to wash the sweat and phantom blood from his body. Step by step, it was the only way he knew how to function now.

Fifteen minutes later, he was dressed and in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to brew. He would’ve liked something stronger, whiskey to be exact, but Bobby would only bitch and moan about it, so he would wait until it was what Bobby thought of as a decent time of the day to be drinking. Anything for an easier life.

“Okay, Rufus, I’ll see what I can do,” Bobby said into the telephone. “I’ll let you know.”

Dean looked up and waited for Bobby’s attack. It would come. It came every day.

“There’s a case in Brunswick.”

And there it was.

Every day Bobby would spring news on him of some case that Dean had to take care of. Dean was convinced Rufus was holed up at Bill’s, snagging cases off of other hunters for Bobby to temp Dean with. Dean didn’t care about cases. He had a role to play, apparently, and he was up for that. As soon as he knew how, he would throw himself into a hunt that would stop a seal breaking, but he wasn’t chasing around the country taking care of other people’s crap for them. He was done. There were a hundred other hunters to do that job for them.

“Not interested,” he grunted.

“Dean, you gotta do something,” Bobby said impatiently.

The coffee maker gurgled its last and Dean poured himself a mug. He brought it to his lips and inhaled deeply. The bitter scent was almost as good as the taste for chasing away memories of the night before.

“Sam wouldn’t want…” Bobby began.

Dean slammed his mug down on the counter, splashing his hand with scalding coffee. He didn’t feel the pain of the burn at first, there was a different pain in him.

“Sam told me to do what I wanted,” he said through gritted teeth. “And this is what I want.”

“He didn’t mean for you to waste your life, the gifts your father gave you. Sam would want—”

“Enough!” Dean bellowed, driven past his point of endurance. Every morning Bobby railed on about what Sam would want and what he had given for Dean, as if Dean didn’t already know. Bobby acted like he could read Sam’s mind, and Dean knew that was a pile of crap. He’d been trying to master that skill for his whole life and he’d never succeeded. But he was the closest. Bobby barely knew Sam at all in comparison. He had no right to cite what Sam would and wouldn’t want to achieve his own ends.

“I don’t want to hear it, Bobby. In fact, I don’t want to hear Sam’s name from you at all.”

“Dean,” Bobby said in a sigh.

“No. I’m done. You don’t know what he would want. I’m his _brother_ and even I don’t know that.”

“I’m not saying I know him better than you,” Bobby said stiffly. “But I do know him, he was my…”

“Boy?” Dean said sarcastically. “Your son? He wasn’t. He was _my_ family, my blood, and he’s gone. You can crap on about how sad that makes you all you like, but you don’t know a damn thing about it. I am living it.”

Bobby’s hands fisted at his sides and he breathed heavily through his nose. “You’re hurting, god knows I know that, but you talk to me like that again and I’ll…”

“You’ll what?” Dean stepped forward, getting uncomfortably close to Bobby. “Punch me?” He held out his hands in front of him and pushed his face into Bobby’s space. “Go ahead. I’ll even let you have one for free.”

Bobby stepped back and raised his hands. “I’m not gonna fight ya. Just look at yourself, though. Facing off against the only family you have left.”

“You’re not my family! My family is dead!”

Dean was satisfied by the look of sadness that etched its lines into Bobby’s face. It made him grimly happy that Bobby was seeing the truth at last. For all his talk of family and how it didn’t end with blood, he was just an old man Sam and Dean had used for information and a place to stay. He wasn’t family.

Bobby took an involuntary step back as if Dean’s words had been blows. He shook his head. “Get out then. You say I'm not family, that I don’t understand; get out of my damn house and be alone. That’s the way you clearly want it, so take it.”

Dean nodded and made for the stairs. In the small room he had used as his own, he gathered his few belongings and shoved them into a duffel. Throwing it over his shoulder, he went back down the stairs and into the kitchen. His jacket was hanging over the back of a chair, and he dragged it on and then made for the door. He half-expected Bobby to say something as he swung it open and stepped outside, but when he turned back Bobby was standing where Dean had left him, staring out of the window.

As he let the door close behind him, he heard a muffled crash from inside and a voice bellowing, “Balls!”

xXx

Dean drove aimlessly for hours, taking turns and choosing roads at what he thought was random. He hadn’t been planning on going there, but he soon found himself driving the streets of what once had been his home.

Lawrence had changed, not that he had many memoires of the town as a child, but he found it hard to believe there had been as many iCafes there when he was young. He remembered a liquor store from the visit to town Sam and he had made a few years ago, and he directed the car in that direction.

The guy behind the counter gave Dean an appraising look as he wrapped the bottle of _Four Roses_ in a paper bag and handed it over. Dean waited for him to comment, eager for someone else to vent his anger towards, but it didn’t come. The guy had just taken his card, run it through the system and handed over the bottle.

Dean stuffed it under his arm and was almost back at the car when someone walked straight into him. He rocked back, a dozen insults on his tongue, and then he caught sight of who it was.

Despite the fact over three years had passed since he last saw her, Missouri Mosely hadn’t changed a bit. Her hair was pulled back from her face with a long scarf and she wore a heavy cardigan despite the late Kansas summer heat. Her lips pursed as she took in the bottle tucked under Dean’s arm and she shook her head. “You’re not going to be needing that now, Dean.” She plucked it out of his grip and tucked it into a fathomless handbag on her arm.

Dean merely gaped at her. He had thought when he drove into the town’s limits that he would stop by and see her, but he had wanted it to be on his terms. She had caught him off guard, appearing like that, and it unsettled him.

He reached for her bag to take the bottle, wanting to take back control of the situation, but she slapped his hand away.

“I know your momma taught you better than to go for a lady’s handbag,” she scolded. “You don’t need that yet. Now, get into that gas-guzzler of a car of yours and come to my house. I know you remember where it is. I’ll be waiting.” She bustled away down the street, hips swinging.

Dean was pissed. He figured he would wait for her to leave get round the corner and then he would get himself another bottle and get the hell out of town. Coming here had been a bad idea.

She turned and waggled a finger at him. “No detours now, Dean. I’ve got a pot-roast ready and I hate to eat alone.”

Dean cursed inwardly. He’d forgotten about her whole mind-reader gig. How was he supposed to get away from her now?

“You don’t. And mind your mouth,” she said.

Rolling his eyes, Dean nodded and climbed into the Impala. He would follow her back to her place, see what she had to say, and then he would get out of dodge. He would find a nice rundown motel somewhere in which he could drown his sorrows without being interfered with.

The drive to Missouri’s small house didn’t take nearly long enough, despite the fact he’d dragged his heels. She was waiting for him on the porch steps, her handbag sitting on her knees.

“Took you long enough,” she said as he climbed out of the car.

Dean grunted an apology.

“It’s no matter,” she said sweetly.

She unlocked the front door and gestured Dean in ahead of her. The place looked exactly as he remembered, dark woods and heavy furniture, with the scent of joss sticks and sound of tinkling wind chimes in the air. He stepped into the lounge and stood, like a child summoned before a headmaster, waiting for her judgment.

She laid her hands on his shoulders and looked him up and down. She smiled sadly, and then released him. “I hope you’re hungry. I’ve been cooking up a storm all day.” She led him into a kitchen where the smell of cooking was overwhelming. He sat at the table and she pulled out a casserole dish from the oven and began ladling it out onto plates.

Dean’s stomach gurgled in response. He hadn’t paid much attention to what he had been eating lately. A couple times a day, Bobby would holler that it was time for food and he would sit down at the small kitchen table and eat whatever Bobby put in front of him. Thoughts of Bobby built the anger in him and his hands fisted on the tabletop.

“You can stop that right now,” she said sternly, turning on him with a ladle held in the air. “I don’t want you badmouthing Bobby Singer here.”

“I didn’t say a word,” Dean said.

“You didn’t have to.” She set a plate of food down in front of Dean and then took a seat opposite him. “Eat.”

Dean picked up his fork and began to eat. It was more than good, it was great. The vegetables and beef were in thick gravy that would have been a full meal on its own. He found he was hungry for the first time in too long to think, and he didn’t refuse second helpings.

The strangest part of the scene was that it didn’t feel strange. Having arrived here on the heels of a blowout with someone who had too much to say about Dean’s life and what he was doing with it, he came to a person with even less right to tell him what to do than Bobby had and yet he accepted it. Missouri wasn’t demanding anything of him that he didn’t feel up to doing. She had brought him here, not against his will, and now she was feeding him. It was nice to give over will to someone else for a change, especially someone that apparently knew the new cardinal rule: don’t talk about Sam.

When they had finished eating, Missouri stood and gathered the dishes. She set to work at the sink, cleaning up. Dean grabbed a clean cloth and without being asked, he began to dry. Missouri nodded her approval and chattered away about inconsequential things such as the late summer heat and the herbs she was trying to cultivate in her garden. When the last dish was dried, she made them coffee and they sat down in the small lounge.

“You’re staying,” Missouri said.

It wasn’t a question, and Dean didn’t have it in him to argue. He felt wrung out like a sponge, and wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and fall asleep there and then on the plush couch. A night in Missouri’s comfortable home seemed like an excellent plan.

“There’s a couple of things I need help with tomorrow if you’re willing. It’s nothing hinky,” she said, forestalling his questions. “Just some odd jobs around the place I can’t get to on my own anymore.”

Dean nodded. “Sure. I can help out.”

She smiled at him. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean looked at her, really looked at her, the understanding yet sad smile, the concerned eyes and the tear trickling down her cheek, and he knew that he had at last found someone that understood and wouldn’t push him. He would come to her for help in his own time and until then, he would help her.

xXx

He was woken early the next morning by Missouri throwing open the drapes and letting the light stream into the small room she had told him to use as his own. He threw up a hand to block the light from burning his eyes out of their sockets and groaned. “What time is it?”

“It’s a little after six,” she said. “And breakfast’s ready.”

Dean slowly moved his hand from his face, letting his eyes adjust to the light. He could smell bacon wafting up the stairs and despite the fact he had gorged himself the day before, he was suddenly ravenous.

“I’ll see you downstairs,” she said, bustling from the room.

Drawn on by the promise of breakfast, Dean didn’t immediately notice that there was something wrong about the scene. He wasn’t panting and drenched with sweat. He’d slept without nightmares. It should have pleased him, to have been given a night of rest for a change, instead it troubled him. Musing on that, he dragged on his clothes and went down to the kitchen. There was a plate of breakfast waiting for him and a glass of juice. He sat down and began to fork up his food.

Missouri sat opposite him, cradling a mug of tea in her hands. As he finished and pushed away the plate, she smiled. “I am going to ask you a question,” she said, “and I don’t want that temper of yours rearing its head.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Are you ready to talk about him yet?”

Dean shook his head jerkily. He knew exactly who she was talking about, and the last thing he wanted to do was talk about his brother with someone who’d barely known him. Sam was his and his alone.

She nodded serenely. “In that case you won’t mind helping me out with a few chores.”

“Of course not,” Anything was better than talking about Sam.

She smiled sweetly. “Good.”

They spent the morning together on their knees, working in the flowerbeds. The closest Dean usually got to getting his hands dirty in the ground was digging up a grave, but under Missouri’s guidance he plucked weeds from between the flowers and herbs and turned the earth.

Missouri kept up a stream of chatter about herself and the neighbors and the people she met at church. Dean let it wash over him as his hands worked seemingly without instruction. He found it was soothing to work on something so simple, no guns, or knives or Latin chants needed. It gave his mind a chance to rest.

In the afternoon, Missouri had clients coming and Dean was handed a can of paint and a brush and directed to the picket fence surrounding her property. The sun baked down on his back, making his neck prickle with sweat but he was as close to at peace as he had been since he’d been brought back, swiping the brush up and down the wooden posts.

When dark came, Missouri came to call him in and he enjoyed another well-made meal.

He thought about leaving, that first night, but Missouri said there were more chores to be done, and he figured the least he could do was repay her hospitality with some work.

He told himself that for a month.

The tools of his trade changed from holy water and knives to roofing cement and a caulking gun. Every morning, he came downstairs, prepared to tell Missouri that he was leaving, but every morning there was a new task to do. Even when he ran out of jobs to do around Missouri’s place, her friends and neighbors had things for him to do; roofs needed fixing and drains needed unblocking. What Dean couldn’t work out through trial and error, he learned from the internet, until he was as handy as anyone with their own D.I.Y show. People tried to pay him, but he refused their money, taking home-baked pies and cakes instead to Missouri’s table. He worked every day, from sun up, when Missouri threw open his curtains, to sun down, when he stumbled into bed, exhausted. He felt that the work was cleansing him, exorcising some of the anger and pain from him like poison drawn from a wound. He didn’t stop thinking about his brother, he didn’t stop hurting from his loss, but it became easier to deal with, helped by the lack of nightmares.

Every morning, he ate breakfast with Missouri and she asked the same question. “Are you ready to talk about him?” And every morning he gave the same response. “No.” Until a morning, at the beginning of October, when he staggered down the stairs with an aching back from spending the previous day under the next-door neighbor’s sink trying to piece back together the trash compacter. That morning, when Missouri passed across a list of chores from yet another neighbor, he balked.

“C’mon, Missouri, it’s a Sunday. Even God takes a day off on a Sunday. Give me a break, okay?”

“Are you saying you’re done, Dean Winchester?” she asked, with her hands on her hips.

“No. Maybe. Yeah… I don’t know.” Dean sank down onto the kitchen chair and rested his elbows on the table. “I don’t know, Missouri.”

She smiled sadly and took a seat opposite him, and folded her hands on the table. “Are you ready to talk about him now?”

Dean’s instant reaction was to tell her no, that he wasn’t ready, that it hurt too bad, but something stopped him. Instead, he found himself saying, “Yeah, I think I am.”

She closed her eyes for a long moment and when she opened them Dean saw a tear making its way down her cheek. “Tell me about Sam,” she said gently.

Dean opened his mouth and the words poured out. All the things he had thought about over the last month but had kept inside. All the things he missed about his brother, the habits that had annoyed him at the time but would give anything to see again—like the fact Sam stirred his frou-frou coffees with the piece of crap wooden stick forever before he would drink it.

He told her how angry he was that Sam had made that deal, usurping his place as the protective big brother. Then he told her about his shame. Shame for the way he had treated Bobby, shame for his weakness of showing his heart was breaking —his dad had taught him better —and shame that he had been close to enjoying his new life, working for Missouri and her friends, when his brother was rotting in Hell.

He cried, ranted, raged, and poured every hurt feeling out for her to see. She bore it all, consoling and commiserating and comforting as best she could. And when he’d finished, tears streaking his face and breaths panting, she took him in her arms and held him against her.

“Do you feel better?” she asked.

Dean nodded. Strangely, he did. It was as if his outpouring had drawn the last of the poison from him. He was still hurting, but it was manageable now. He could bear it rather than drowning under the force of his loss.

“You know what you need to do now?” she asked.

Dean nodded and wiped at his face. “I need to get on with that list. People’s sinks aren’t going to fix themselves.”

She waved a hand through the air. “So they can call Hank the Handyman like they always did. You’ve been hiding here, and I’ve been happy to have you, but it’s time you got back to life, real life. You have a purpose in the world Dean, and it’s saving people. You need to get back to that.”

A purpose…” Dean sighed. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

“And that there angel was right. You have a role to play. The end is coming, Dean.”

Dean started. “How do you…?”

She smiled fondly. “Boy, you haven’t even begun to unravel the many mysteries that make me up. You’d been here another month just trying to work out my real name. I know about the angels, and their war against the demons, and I know it’s high time you got back to that.”

Dean sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I guess you’re right. Though I don’t know where to start.”

“You start by going back to South Dakota, to Bobby. You owe that man an apology. He’ll set you right on your path again.”

Dean knew it was the truth. He had turned his phone off a month ago, and he hadn’t checked it once since, but he knew Bobby well enough to know he’d be calling Dean, trying to get through to him. He didn’t know how many hunts he had missed while hiding here, how many people he had failed to save, but he knew he wouldn’t let it happen again.

He got to his feet and went to his bedroom to pack up his stuff. Missouri followed him up and watched as he gathered his belongings.

“There’s some things you need to take with you,” she said, fiddling with something behind the folds of the drapes. She held out an ugly mottled stone on a loop of cord and a sprig of some dried herb. “It’s an adder stone,” she said, seeing his confusion, “and this here’s rosemary. They’re what’s been keeping away your nightmares.”

“How did you know?” Dean asked.

“That you were having nightmares? The same way I knew you were in town. Your soul was crying out to me the minute you crossed the state lines. Your pain led me to you and I knew I had to do what I could to help.”

Dean dropped his duffel and enveloped her in his arms. “Thanks, Missouri, for everything.”

She patted his shoulder and leaned back to look him in the eye. “Thank you for letting me help. And thank you for finally letting me say this, I’m so sorry about your brother.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

xXx

Dean knew as soon as he pulled through the wrought iron gate marking the entrance to the scrap yard that Bobby would know he was coming, but no tire iron came swinging at the hood of the Impala, so he figured Bobby couldn’t be too pissed at him. That or he wasn’t home. When he wound around the last of the junked cars and came to a stop at the side of the house, he realized why he wasn’t being attacked for daring to show his face again. Bobby wasn’t alone. There was a polished Ford Zodiac parked beside Bobby’s Chevelle. Rufus was here, too.

He climbed out of the car and let the door swing shut loudly, broadcasting his arrival, and scaled the steps to the porch. He raised his fist and knocked once. The fact he was knocking on a door he’d once felt comfortable swinging open and entering without worrying settled over him, making him see just how wrong he’d gone lately.

The door unlatched and Bobby stood in the opening, a frown marring his brow. “You forget something?” he asked belligerently.

Dean drew a breath. He should have expected the attitude, he deserved it after all, but somehow in the month they’d spent apart, as he’d healed, he’d expected Bobby to remain the same, accepting and welcoming as he’d always been.

“I came to apologize,” he said haltingly.

“You better come in then.” Bobby stepped back and held the door open for Dean to enter.

Feeling like he was on trial, in a way he was, Dean walked into the musty scented house, with its dust motes dancing in the air and stacks of books on every available surface.

Bobby shoved past him and walked into the kitchen, and Dean followed. Rufus was sitting on the couch with a glass of whiskey in his hand and a book open on his lap. He looked up as they entered, “I’m telling you. Bobby, there’s no mention of… Ah. Dean.”

Dean nodded a greeting. “Hey, Rufus.”

Rufus set his glass down on an end table and got to his feet. “I’ve got some things to do it town. I’ll leave you two for a while. You… talk.”

Well, that wasn’t at all awkward, Dean thought, watching Rufus snatch up his coat and hurry out of the room.

The door clicked closed behind him and then the rumble of the Ford’s engine could be heard as drove away.

Bobby pushed past Dean again and grabbed the glass of whiskey from the end table. He carried it over to the sink and tossed it down the drain as if he expected Dean to fall on it and gulp it down if he left it in view too long. It made him realize just how bad he’d let his behavior regarding liquor get before he’d left Bobby’s place a month ago. He hadn’t had a drink since then—he didn’t know what had happened to the bottle of rotgut Missouri had confiscated—and he wasn’t about to start now. He needed his head on straight.

“So,” Bobby said, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest, “you wanted to apologize.”

Dean shoved his hands deep in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. “Yeah, I did.”

“You have to actually say the words for it to work.”

Dean cracked a smile. “I’m sorry, Bobby. I acted like an ass, and I deserve a beating for some of the things I said.”

Bobby nodded grimly. “You do deserve it, that and more.”

“I’m sorry.”

Bobby stared at him and Dean felt that he was assessing his sincerity and coming to his own conclusions. “Where have you been?” he asked eventually.

“Lawrence. I stayed with Missouri. She helped me get myself together.”

“Well, how’d she do that? ‘Cause God knows I could do with learning the trick.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Bobby huffed. “This more _family only_ stuff?”

Dean bowed his head, ashamed. “I should never have said you weren’t family, Bobby. I didn’t mean it. You arefamily. You’ve been a better father to me and Sam than our own dad, and I shouldn’t have forgotten that.”

“You’re right, you shouldn’t,” Bobby said pushing away from the counter and coming towards Dean. “I understand why you said it though. I was pushing too hard. It’s just… there’s stuff happening and we need to be a team about it. I hate to say it, but the world is close to ending and Sam’s…”

“Sam’s gone?” Dean guessed. It was a mark of how much the last month had changed him that Dean didn’t attack Bobby for pointing out what he knew in his heart. “He’s gone and I’ve got to accept that.”

Bobby held up his hands. “I’m not saying forget.”

Dean nodded “I know. But it’s the truth. Sam’s gone and the world is still here, for now at least. I’ve got to let him be gone.”

“It ain’t easy.” Bobby sighed heavily and his eyes became faraway for a moment. “God knows it’s not that.”

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. “It sure as hell isn’t. Still, it’s what he’d want.”

“And what about you?” Bobby asked, “What is it that you want?”

Dean considered his answer. “I want to bring Lilith down. She’s the one cracking these seals, and I want to stop her.”

Bobby tugged off his cap and nodded thoughtfully. “I can help with that. I’m guessing you want a place to bed down too.”

Dean looked hopeful. “If that’s okay.”

“Your bed’s where you left it,” Bobby said gruffly. “Nothing’s changed here. You want a place, you have it, no matter what happens.”That said he turned his back on Dean and sat down behind the desk, picking up a book. He leaned his elbows on the table and massaged his temples. “There’s coffee in the pot if you’re thirsty.”

Dean smiled to himself. It wasn’t much, but this was Bobby, and grand gestures weren’t his thing. The simple offer of coffee was as much of a homecoming as he was going to get, and it was plenty for him.

xXx

The parking lot of Bill’s was full and he had to park between a decrepit Winnebago and an even older Plymouth. He climbed out, careful not to transfer the rust from the Winnebago onto the Impala’s door, and made his way to the front entrance. He didn’t particularly want to go through the main bar, but he didn’t know Ellen well enough to let himself in through the back.

The sounds of music and voices swelled as he shouldered the door open and Dean prepared himself for the onslaught as he entered. Unlike the last time he had been here, the bar was now packed with patrons. Some of them Dean recognized as other hunters, and some looked like locals that were prepared to overlook the armory spread out on the tables in favor of cheap liquor and the good atmosphere.

Dean was halfway to the bar when a hand clapped down on his shoulder. “Dean Winchester, as I live and breathe.”

Dean turned and was met with a familiar man. He had closely shorn, grey hair and stubble and bleary blue eyes. “Hey there Travis. How’ve you been?”

“Not too bad,” Travis said. “Could have used you about a month ago though. I had a hunt to take care of and a bum arm. I tried calling.”

“Been kinda out of touch lately. Sorry.”

“It’s no matter,” Travis said. “I took care of the problem in the end, all neat and tidy.”

Dean made for the bar and Travis laid a hand on his shoulder, holding him back.

“I just wanted to say, I heard about Sam and I’m real sorry.”

Dean gritted his teeth and nodded. He should have expected this. News had to have spread. The mention of Sam didn’t bring the same piercing pain it used to; it was more a dull ache now, painful but bearable. Travis released him and he made it to the bar. Ellen’s eyes widened as she caught sight of him and she left the person she was serving with a muttered apology and came to the end of the bar where Dean stood.

“Hey there, sweetie. You okay? Bobby’s been ringing off the hook looking for you.”

Dean leaned over the bar so she could hear him without him having to shout over the music. “I’m fine. I just came from Bobby’s.”

“You want to go through to the back? I’ve got a couple hours before closing.”

Dean nodded. “That’d be good.”

She smiled. “You make yourself at home.”

He weaved through the crowd, nodding to acquaintances that tried to meet his eye, and made it through the door into the kitchen. The room was unchanged from how he’d last seen it except for a small vase of flowers at the centre of the table. He cast them an oblique look as he crossed the room and opened the back door to the yard.

Resting against the wooden cross of Sam’s grave was a small posy of flowers, the same flowers that had been in the kitchen. Ellen or Jo must have put them there. He wondered if he should have brought something too. It was too late now, though, and he would have felt stupid doing it. He stood at the foot of the raised earth and cleared his throat, marshaling himself to do what he had come to do.

“Hey, Sammy.” He sighed out a heavy breath that misted in the cool night air. “This has to be one of the all-time dumbest things I’ve done lately, talking to your grave. It’s not like you’re even here listening. You’re… somewhere else, I know that, but these things have got to be said, so I’m going to bite the bullet and get them said. Sammy, I’m sorry…”

Dean stood for a long time, talking over his brother’s grave. The sounds of the bar behind him were the only accompaniment to his monologue. He made apologies and confessions and accusations. He told Sam how he’d spent the last six weeks, not omitting anything; he laid bare his soul and with every word, he felt like he was growing stronger. The weeks with Missouri had exorcised the poison from the wound and this conversation was the last healing layer. When he eventually fell silent, a long time later, he finally felt strong enough to go on with the fight. He had laid the last piece of his brother, the piece he had been holding close to his heart, down to rest.

He turned to go back inside and started as he almost walked right into Castiel.

“Castiel, what are you doing here?”

“I needed to speak to you,” Castiel said solemnly.

“And you knew where I was how?”

“I am an angel. Sensing a single human’s location is easy for us.” He looked down at Sam’s grave with a thoughtful expression. “I heard you talking to your brother.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know why you bothered listening. It was a dumb thing to do. I don’t even know why I did it.”

“Do not cheapen what has just passed,” Castiel said. “You have laid your brother to rest. That is significant.” He looked into Dean’s eyes. “Missouri Mosely has been a good friend to you.”

“How do you know about her? Have you been following me?” Dean asked indignantly.

Castiel shook his head serenely. “Save your anger for things that matter. I have not been following you. I heard Missouri’s prayers.”

“So you guys hear prayers?” Dean wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Prayers were supposed to go to God. The thought that a bunch of dick angels had been listening when Sam had made his daily prayer bothered him.

“We only hear prayers directed to us individually. Missouri prayed to me because she knew the part I have been given in your personal story. She despaired sometimes, worried you would never heal. You have now, so I can share my news. Fifteen seals have been broken.”

Dean took a step back. “You’re kidding. Why didn’t you come get me? I could have stopped them.”

“Do not overestimate yourself,” Castiel said. “You could not have stopped them. My brethren died trying to stop it. And besides, you weren’t ready to be of assistance to us. You needed to lay your grief to rest before you could have been any use.”

“And now I’m ‘healed’ I am useful again?” He didn’t like the word. It made it sound like he had forgotten about Sam. He hadn’t. Sam was still in his thoughts and he still missed him with a pain that was almost physical, but it didn’t overwhelm him now. He could think around it and try to do what Sam would have wanted.

“That is the essence of it, yes.”

“So what are you doing here now?” Dean asked. “Is there another seal breaking?”

“Undoubtedly,” Castiel said. “But I do now know which it is. There are over six hundred possible seals, and we do not know which Lilith will target next. I merely came here tonight to remind you of your purpose and to ensure you are battle ready.”

Dean raised his arms at his sides. “This is me, battle ready. I’m a loaded gun, just point me.”

Castiel nodded. “When the time comes, I will.”

With that, he disappeared with a faint fluttering sound. Cursing quietly, Dean went back into the kitchen and sat down at the table.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

 

Gradually, the noise in the bar died down as people left for the night. Engines started and cars pulled out of the parking lot, leaving clouds of dust in their wake.

Ellen came through to the kitchen and raked a hand over her face, sighing tiredly. Dean stood to greet her and she hugged him tightly.

“How’ve you been, sweetie?” she asked, pulling back to look him in the eye.

Dean shrugged his shoulders. “I’m fine.” When she looked at him doubtfully, he continued. “I really am, Ellen. Things have been tough, but I’m okay now.”

Her grip on his shoulders tightened. “The last time someone said that to me he’d just made the deal that saved your life. Please tell me you haven’t…”

Dean shook his head. “No deals. I haven’t even tried since that first night back.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how to explain it, Ellen, I’m not even sure I want to. Things are just different now.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “I guess that’s good. As long as you’re okay.”

“I’m not skipping around, seeing the infinite joy in the world, but I’m dealing.”

She smiled. “That’s better than nothing, I guess. It’s what he would want, which is what matters. Have you been out to see him?”

“Yeah. I saw the flowers.”

“That’s Jo. She goes out there and sees him almost every day that she’s here. She tells him about her hunts and the people she meets. I think it helps her, you know?”

“How’s she doing?” Dean asked.

“She’s dealing too,” Ellen said with a small smile. “Her and Sam got close the weeks he was here with us, and I think she’s missing him more than she’s letting on. You sticking around? She’ll be back soon and she’d love to see you again. She’s been worried. We both have.”

“Yeah, I’ve got time, and I’d like to see her, too.”

They fell into a comfortable silence that was broken only by the cicadas singing outside the window. Then there was a rumble of an approaching engine, and Ellen got to her feet and put water on to boil.

“That’s Jo,” she said taking a mug from the counter and dropping in a teabag. “I recognize the sputter of that crapped out engine anywhere.”

Dean smiled at the fondness in her voice. He guessed it wasn’t easy for Ellen, having Jo out living the hunter’s life. He knew it was a dangerous world and it left your loved ones living with a constant ache of worry. He was lucky in that his family had all lived the hunting life—for the most part—so they had been too busy working to worry too much. He wondered if Sam had worried about him and their dad when he’d been at Stanford, and then he shook away the thought. There was no way of knowing and dwelling on the things he’d never asked would get him nowhere.

The back door clicked open and Jo came in. Dean looked up at her and smiled.

“Jo, what’s wrong?” Ellen asked, concern heavy in her tone.

Dean took a closer look at Jo and saw what was making Ellen worry. Jo’s smile was forced and taut and saw there were deep creases on her forehead.

“I saw a dog,” she said.

“A dog like Fido the Pekinese or…” Dean asked.

“A black dog. Outside by Sam’s grave.”

Dean jumped to his feet and threw open the back door. There was nothing out there. The night was still; even the cicadas had fallen silent.

It could have been a stray, perfectly innocent, but Jo wasn’t the sort of person that jumped at shadows, and she looked genuinely scared now.

He turned and gripped her shoulders. “What did it look like?”

“It was big.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “And its eyes were kinda red.”

“Help me out here, Jo. Red bloodshot or red demonic.”

She blinked and a tear ran down her cheek. “I think… I think it was a hellhound.”

Dean released her and his hands tangled in his hair. Hellhounds here. Hellhounds were blood and pain and death. They couldn’t be here, they just couldn’t because that would mean…

“Jo, what did you do?” Ellen asked in a breathy voice. “You made a deal.”

“I did not,” Jo said shrilly. “I haven’t been near a crossroads.”

“Swear it,” Ellen demanded. “Swear on your father’s name.”

“I swear it,” Jo said. “I swear on dad’s name that I haven’t been near a crossroads.”

Dean believed her, but that added a new level of worry. Hellhounds were invisible unless your deal was approaching and they were coming for you. Jo hadn’t seen a Hellhound, which meant she had seen something worse.

“Are you sure you saw it?” Ellen asked. “It couldn’t have just been a stray?”

Jo shook her head. “I didn’t imagine it, Mom. It had glowing red eyes.”

Dean snatched up his jacket from the back of the chair and pulled it on.

“Where are you going?” Ellen asked and Dean knew what she was thinking. She thought Dean was going to crap on their friendship and make a run for it, even after everything they had done for him and Sam.

“We’re all going,” Dean said. “We’ve got to get somewhere safe. Grab what you need for a few days and do it fast. We haven’t got much time.”

“What are you thinking, Dean?” Jo asked. “What did I see?”

“I think you saw a Black Dog,” Dean said. “A supernatural Black Dog.”

Ellen whimpered and grabbed Jo’s hand.

“What’s a Black Dog?” Jo asked in a querulous voice.

Dean looked her in the eye and saw the open fear there. He felt sick at what he had to tell her. “It’s an omen of death.”

xXx

Dean called ahead to warn him they were coming, so Bobby was waiting at the door for them. When he caught sight of Jo’s tear streaked face, he opened his arms and she fell into his waiting embrace.

“It’s okay,” he said gently. “We’ll take care of it.”

“You better,” Ellen said. Whereas Jo was wearing her fear like a cloak for all to see, Ellen’s seemed to be beyond words. She was terrified for her daughter, but she was hiding it behind a mask of strength.

Bobby released Jo and led them into the library. Jo sat down on the couch and Ellen sat beside her with an arm around her shoulder. Bobby picked up a book from the desk and brought it over to show Jo. “Is that what you saw?”

Jo glanced over the page and shuddered. “I think so. The eyes are right.”

“Tell me you’ve got good news, Bobby,“ Dean said.

Bobby shook his head solemnly. “Nothing good. I’ve been reading up on Black Dogs, and it’s not good. One thing is it might not mean Jo’s death.”

Ellen looked up sharply. “Then who’s is it?”

“Maybe yours,” Bobby said. “The lore says a Black Dog is a portend of a death in a family. It could be the person that saw the dog or someone they love.”

Fresh tears ran down Jo’s cheeks. “Mom?”

“I’m fine, sweetie,” Ellen said. “We’re going to be fine. I’ll take care of this.”

“We will,” Dean said firmly. He wasn’t going to lose anyone else, not now. He would find this dog and he would take care of it.

“And by we he means me and him,” Bobby said.

“I can fight,” Jo said, bristling with indignation. “I’ve been hunting two years now. I’m not a kid.”

“No one said you were,” Bobby said patiently. “But with the dog targeting you and your mom, you can’t be in this. You and your mom are going somewhere safe.” “I thought we had,” Ellen said. “This place is the best protected from fuglys that I have ever seen.”

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” Dean said with a grim smile. “Come with me.”

Ellen and Jo got to their feet and followed Dean out of the study and into the hall. Dean opened the door leading to the basement and went down the steps with them hot on his heels. He unbolted the heavy iron door and went into the panic room. Ellen turned on the spot, taking in the room with its arsenal of weapons and solid iron walls.

“It’s a panic room,” Dean said. “Bobby made it himself. If anywhere is safe for you, it’s this place.”

Jo crossed the room and perched on the edge of the cot. She wrapped her arms around herself. “How long will we have to stay here?”

“As long as it takes,” Ellen said firmly. “This is no time to be pandering to our fears.”

Dean frowned. He didn’t think Jo was claustrophobic. He remembered how she had handled the confined spaces when they had been hunting H.H. Holmes.

“It’s not me,” Jo said, seeing his confusion. “It’s mom.”

Ellen scoffed. “You think I’m going to get all phobic now? Jo, your life’s on the line. I could be trapped in a coffin and I’d be fine.”

Dean didn’t think much of that. Having recently woken up in his own grave, he knew it wasn’t exactly a party.

“You girls stay here,” Bobby said. “Me and Dean will get to researching.”

Ellen sat down beside her daughter and nodded. “Work fast.”

“You know it,” Dean said and then followed Bobby back out into the basement.

When he had bolted the door, shutting Jo and Ellen in, Bobby turned to Dean. “We’ve got no choice about working fast. Lore says Black Dogs are portends of death.”

“We know this Bobby.”

“Yeah, smartass, do you also know the death will occur within three days.”

Dean cursed. That wasn’t nearly enough time.

xXx

Rufus had gone home, and though Bobby called him and told him what had happened, he was halfway back to Vermont, twelve hours away, so Dean and Bobby were left to research alone. They worked in silence, only speaking to exchange facts.

They had been at it for an hour when Dean threw his book down onto the table and sighed. Research wasn’t his forte, that had been Sam, and he was quickly disheartened by the lack of useful information.

“There’s nothing in here about how to kill them,” he said.

Bobby snapped his book shut. “No, nor in here. Maybe they can’t be killed.”

Dean rubbed at his tired eyes. “Then what are we supposed to do? We can’t keep them in the panic room forever.”

“If that’s even helping. It barred against fuglys but there are a hundred natural ways of dying. Who’s to say Ellen won’t drop dead of a heart attack?”

“Then should we move them?”

“Where to, a hospital? What are we supposed to tell the doctors? My friend saw a death omen, so we need a crash cart standing by?”

“Don’t say that.” Dean groaned. He didn’t want to think about it. He could defend Ellen and Jo from something he could fight, but he had no defense against natural, human deaths.

“I’m sorry, Dean, but I can’t not say it. We might well have to…”

“To what?” Dean asked. “Chalk this one up to fate and watch Ellen or Jo die? I can’t do that, not after everything we’ve lost already.”

Bobby rested his head in his hands. “If we just knew what weapon to use.”

“Weapon!” Dean jumped to his feet and went to where he had stowed his jacket. He pulled Ruby’s knife out of the inner pocket. “We’ve got a weapon. This thing kills demons, right? Why can’t it kill a demonic dog?”

“Because a Black Dog isn’t demonic,” Bobby said. “According to everything I’ve read, a Black Dog is part of the natural order of things. It is not evil; it’s just doing its job.”

Dean shook his head and tugged on his jacket. “Natural or not, I’m ganking this thing.”

“And how are you going to find it?”

“I’ll go back to Bill’s. The thing is probably still hanging around.”

“That’s one hell of a long shot,” Bobby said.

“I’ve got to try, Bobby. You keep hitting the books, and I’ll go find me a pup.”

Bobby looked like he wanted to argue some more, but he stayed quiet, possibly seeing the determination in Dean’s eyes. “You be careful.”

Dean tossed the knife from hand to hand. “I always am.” He flashed Bobby a grim smile and went out to the car, feeling better now he had something resembling a plan.

xXx

The speed Dean was driving at cut down the journey to Bill’s by an hour. He was soon pulling up in the parking lot and cutting the engine. Throughout the ride, he considered his plan, and the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. If he could just kill the dog, Ellen and Jo would be fine.

He climbed out of the car and made his way round the back of the bar. It was eerie, with the bar in darkness and the full moon, and he felt like he was being watched. Hoping it was a certain dog that was watching, Dean pulled the knife out of his pocket and crept forward.

“Here doggy, doggy,” he said loudly. “Come get your treat.”

Nothing moved in the night except the grass in the light breeze.

Dean raked a hand through is hair and wondered what to do next. He could return to Bobby’s, a failure, or he could keep at it, trying to track the… And then he heard it, a low growl from behind the shed.

He gripped the hilt of the knife a little tighter and made his way forward slowly. He was almost there when something barreled around the corner and launched itself at him. He was knocked back to the ground and his breath huffed out of him. He looked up at his attacker and his heart contracted painfully. It was a huge dog, with slobbering jowls and glowing red eyes. It looked so much like a hellhound. His mind spun back through the months to the last time, when red eyes had looked at him with hunger, as his chest had been torn to ribbons and the life had left him. He was going to die, he knew it. Then reason caught up with him. Last time he had been defenseless, this time he had a weapon. He drew Ruby’s knife up and shoved it up into the dog’s neck, drawing it down to its haunches, but there was something wrong. The knife moved through the air without resistance. As if the dog wasn’t there. He tried again, jabbing the knife into the dog’s neck. He saw immediately what was wrong. The dog wasn’t truly there. The knife cut through the dog’s throat but rather than drawing blood, it moved through smoke. The dog was like a vengeful spirit, able to affect but not be affected. Dean cursed the fact he’d come armed only with the knife. He needed a shotgun full of salt rounds.

Suddenly, the dog whined and drew back, climbing from him. Dean scrambled to his feet and looked at the dog. It was bowed against the ground now, whining as if it was being whipped.

Dean stared down at it, wondering what the hell was happening, then a voice whispered to him, “Run!” He remained frozen in place, heart pounding in his ears, as he waited for the voice to come again. He _needed_ to hear it again. “Damnit, Dean, run!”

He obeyed without thought, leaving the dog whimpering on the ground, he ran for the car and yanked open the door. He threw himself in behind the wheel and gunned the engine before he had even closed the door behind him.

He was halfway to Lincoln, and his heart still hadn’t stopped pounding, when his phone rang.

He snatched it up. “Sam?”

“What?” Bobby’s voice was a mere whisper. “Dean, it’s me.”

“Bobby?”

“Yeah. Look, you’ve gotta get back here. I’ve found something.”

“I’m already on my way,” Dean said.

“Hurry.”

Dean tossed the phone down on the seat and coaxed a little more speed out of the engine.

xXx

Bobby was pacing the library when Dean got back around dawn. There was a stack of books open on the desk and Bobby had one clutched in his hand. He looked up as Dean came in and breathed a sigh of relief.

“What took you so long?” he asked.

“Driving,” Dean said simply. “What did you find?”

“Come downstairs. Ellen and Jo need to hear this, too."

Jo was curled up on the cot and Ellen was sitting on the floor with a hand resting on Jo’s arm. As the door creaked closed, Jo sat up and rubbed her bloodshot eyes.

“Tell me you found something good,” Ellen said getting to her feet.

Bobby scrubbed a hand through his beard. “I found something, but I don’t know whether or not it’s good.” He opened the book and read aloud. “Black Dogs, the servants of Reapers, bless a forewarning on those bound for death if they are deserving.”

“Bless?” Jo said incredulously. “I don’t call this a blessing.”

“Never mind that,” Ellen said. “What’s that about Reapers?”

“The dogs, they’re like… assistants to Reapers,” Bobby said. “From what I’ve read, they come to people in the know and give them warning of death. It’s like a blessing to them, gives you a chance to get your affairs in order.”

Dean scoffed. “Well, that’s not happening here. No one’s getting reaped.” Jo gave him a sad smile and Dean recognized it. He had worn the same smile for the year he knew he was living on borrowed time. He hated to see it on Jo’s face. It was if she had already given up. “I mean it. We just need to find the Reaper and gank it.”

“I don’t think it’s gonna be that easy,” Bobby said. “You can’t fight something you can’t see, and the only people that can see Reapers are those that are dying.”

“Will I be able to see it?” Jo asked.

Bobby shook his head. “You’ve got to be on the verge. That or a ghost.”

Dean grinned as an idea occurred to him. “Well, if ghosts are the only ones that can see them...”

Bobby crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah?”

“Then I become a ghost.”

There was an explosion of noise in the wake of Dean’s words. He allowed them to get it out for a minute and then he raised his hands. Ellen and Jo fell silent, but Bobby had a head of steam building and he was going to make himself heard.

“I know you’ve been through a lot, Dean, but we’ve been through this. You can’t—“

“I’m not pissing all over Sam’s grave or whatever else you’re going to say. I’m not _dying_ dying. I’m talking about altering perception a little. Astral projecting.”

Bobby scoffed. “And I forgot that you’re a Zen master. How are you planning reaching the astral plane? That sort of mojo takes decades of practice.”

“I’m going to get a little help,” Dean said calmly. “I know someone.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

 

Three hours later, there was a knock at the door. Dean swung it open with a smile. “Pamela.”

She looked him up and down. “Well, you’re looking better. Your energy is all smoothed out.”

“Um, good?”

“It’s definitely good,” she said. “You’re not fighting yourself anymore.”

She walked into the study and Bobby stood to greet her. She hugged him tight and then stepped back. “So, which one of you brainiacs came up with astral projection?”

Dean raised a hand. “Me.”

Pamela sighed. Of course you did. So, let's be clear. You want to rip your soul out of your body and take a little stroll through the spirit world?”

“Yep.”

Pamela looked at him sadly. “Is this about your brother? Because you know, he’s not a spirit. He’s in—“

“I know where he is,” Dean said. “This isn’t about Sam. It’s about my friends. One of them saw a Black Dog. So we’ve got”—he checked his watch—“about fifty-five hours left to save them. I need to speak to the Reaper, find a way to stop it.”

Pamela crossed her arms over her chest. “You think the Reaper is going to talk?”

“I sure as hell hope so.”

“So, you’re going to track down the Reaper and ask it nicely to spare your friends?“

“Something like that. Anyway, it’s not a case of tracking one down. Bobby’s got a spell to summon one. So…”

“So, it's nuts.”

Dean shook his head. “Not if you know what you're doing.”

“You don't know what you're doing.”

“No, but you do.”

Pamela rounded on Bobby. “What do you think about this?”

“I don’t like it,” Bobby admitted. “But we don’t have a lot of options open to us. We’ve got to do something. We’ve already lost too much.”

Pamela threaded a hand through her hair. “Fine. I’ll do my bit, but I am doing against my better judgment.”

“That’s fine,” Dean said. “As long as you do it.”

“What do you need to work this?” Bobby asked.

“Nothing but a few candles and my unnatural talents,” she said with a sigh.

Ten minutes later, Dean was sitting on the edge of the couch in the library and Pamela was lighting the candles she’d dotted around the room. Bobby was watching Dean.

“Okay,” Pamela said when the last candle was lit. “You need to lie down.”

Feeling like a circus exhibit under their combined gaze, Dean lay down and closed his eyes.

He heard Pamela moving closer to him and then he felt her lay a hand over his chest. “Animum vult decipi, ergo decipiatur. Vis, vis, vis. Okay, Dean. That's it. Showtime.”

Dean waited to feel something change, but there was nothing. He sat up, wondering what the hell they were going to do now. There was Doctor Robert, but he wasn’t seriously contemplating that. Not unless they got down to the knuckle and had no choice.

“Well, nothing like shooting blanks,” he said. “What's plan B?”

No one seemed to hear him. He stood and turned and then started. There he was, lying on the couch, eyes closed and a peaceful expression on his face. He was a little freaked out looking at himself. He looked dead.

“”All right,” Pamela said. “I'm assuming you're somewhere over the rainbow. Remember I have to bring you back. I'll whisper the incantation in your ear.” She bowed over his unconscious form and whispered in his ear. “Believe what you see not what you hear.”

Dean frowned. Did that mean she knew what had happened back at Bill’s? Did she know he’d heard Sam’s voice?

“He ready for the reaper?” Bobby asked.

Pamela nodded. “I hope so.”

Bobby moved to the desk and sprinkled some herbs into the bowl of ingredients he had gathered earlier. Smoke rose from the bowl, and though Dean couldn’t smell anything, he guessed it smelled pretty bad by Pamela and Bobby’s wrinkled noses.

Bobby chanted something and then a force whipped through the room, making the pages of the book he was reading from flip as if caught in a high wind.

“Dean,” a smooth voice said.

Dean spun on his heel and stared at the woman that had appeared. She was beautiful, with her long black hair and trim figure. Despite the fact she apparently knew him, Dean was pretty sure he’d never met her before.

“I have to say, you're much prettier than the last reaper I met.”

She smiled slightly. “You’re not very original. You said that last time.”

“Last time?”

She frowned. “You don't remember me?”

Dean grinned. “Honestly, if I had a nickel for every time I heard a girl say that... You're gonna have to freshen my memory.”

She stepped forward and grabbed the back of Dean’s head. Pulling him forward, their lips met in a kiss. As images forced their way though his mind, Dean tried to pull back, but she held him firm, forcing more images through his mind. Himself in the hospital, his back arching as doctors shocked him back into life. Him sitting crossed legged across from Sam on the floor, a Ouija board between them. Him standing with the woman in a hospital corridor.

Finally, she released him and he drew back panting. “Tessa?”

“That's one of my names, yeah.”

“You were the one that came for me in the hospital.”

She nodded. “I was. Before your father saved you.”

Dean grimaced at the reminder of what John had given up to save him.

“I need your help,” she said.

“You need _my_ help?”

“I need you to help me to save your friend. The world is wrong. I am being forced to reap people that are not bound for death.”

Dean breathed a sigh of relief. “You mean Ellen and Jo?”

“Joanna Harvelle,” she said. “She was marked by my hound.”

“Yeah, I met him. He was a bundle of laughs. Nearly killed me.”

She shook her head. “No, he didn’t. You nearly killed him. Well, at least you tried. Demon blades cannot kill spectral dogs. Besides, even if he was capable of killing a human, I would have stopped him. I told you, I need your help. Why do you think I called him off before you could come to harm?”

“That was you?” Dean said. “Tell me, how exactly do you control an animal like that?”

“He is bound to me,” she said. “He answers my will. At least he did. Now, like me, he has been enslaved.”

“By who?” Dean asked.

“Demons. There is a spell. They have been forcing me to take the righteous before their time.”

“Hunters?”

“Yes. I have killed three already.”

Dean sighed. It wasn’t a good time to be a hunter. First the witnesses ran around ganking them, and now there was Reapers. He wondered why it was hunters, that dedicated their lives to saving people, never got a break. And then he realized that was precisely the point. Lilith was the one breaking the seals and she was the one with a hate on for hunters. In her eyes, the less there were in the world the better it was for her apocalyptic plans.

“What can I do?” he asked.

“It is a demon called Lilith forcing us to kill.”

Dean groaned at rubbed at his eyes. “Killing her is number one on my bucket list, believe me, but I haven’t got much of a weapon for her right now.”

Tessa sighed. “No, your knife won’t kill her, but she does not need to die. It wasn’t her that cast the spell. It was a lesser demon. I can show you where to find her.”

Dean spotted a problem. “Is it close? Because I can’t exactly drive us over.”

“Close your eyes,” Tessa said.

Dean obliged and he felt himself moving. It was the same feeling he’d had when Castiel was bouncing him through the past and he wondered where he’d come out. When he opened his eyes, he was in a dimly lit cavernous room. The walls were slatted wood that made him think it was a barn of some sort.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor was a young woman Dean recognized. It was the demon that had come to Bill’s after Sam had died, the one that said she had made the deal.

“I thought she was supposed to be on her way out,” he said musingly.

“Demons lie, Dean,” Tessa said. “Why would this one be any different?”

Dean shrugged nonchalantly, but he was thinking hard. He might not be able to take Lilith out yet, but he sure as hell could take this piddling demon. He could at least start to avenge Sam.

“So, I have to kill her?” Dean asked.

“You can, but that will not break the spell. The demon will have a pendant. You will recognize it, you have seen it before. Smash that and I will be freed.”

Dean nodded. “That I can do.”

Tessa nodded her satisfaction. “Hurry, Dean. The longer you wait, the more will die, including your friends.”

“Friends?” Dean asked. “I thought it was just Jo on the hit list.”

“It was before you encountered my charge. You saw the dog, too.”

“So, I’m going to die?”

“Not you.”

“But my family’s all dead,” Dean said.

She smiled sadly. “Your family does not end with your blood.”

“Bobby!” Dean gasped. “Dammit.” Cold fear gripped him. He had to get back into his body. He needed to get to this demon. He couldn’t let Bobby die, not now, not after Sam. He couldn’t let it happen. “I’ve got to get back.”

“There I cannot help you,” Tessa said. “That is down to you.”

Dean remembered Pamela whispering into his ear and he recited, “Believe what you see not what you hear.”

Nothing happened. He remained in the shadowy barn, across from Tessa.

“What the…?”

“Dig deeper,” Tessa said. “Believe what you are saying.”

Dean understood, and with a heavy heart, he said, “I believe what I can see, not what I can hear.”

It happened fast. One moment he was looking at Tessa and the next it was Bobby’s concerned face looking down at him as he lay on the cot, panting for breath.

“Dean, you okay?”

Dean nodded and eased himself to a sitting position. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Did it work?” Pamela asked.

“Yeah, I saw the Reaper. It was the same one that came after me way back when. She said…” He caught himself before he revealed the fact Bobby was on the line. He didn’t need to know that. “She’s under a spell. Some demon has her on a leash. She’s being forced to go after hunters.”

Bobby cursed and Dean knew what he was thinking: which of his friends had died this time? “So, what do we do?”

“The demon will have a pendant. We’ve got to destroy it. She’s in…” Dean cursed. He hadn’t gotten a location out of Tessa.

“She’s where?” Bobby asked.

Dean shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not sure.” He rounded on Pamela. “Take me back. I’ve got to talk to her again.”

Bobby shook his head. “We can’t. The summoning spell only works once. The Reapers won’t answer a second time.”

“What the hell are we supposed to do now? Can you Ouija through to her?” Dean asked Pamela.

She looked apologetic. “Reapers aren’t bound to the spirit world the way you think. I wouldn’t know where to start tracking down a single Reaper.”

Dean cursed fluidly, raking a hand through his hair. “What about that thing you used to track Lilith?” he asked. “Will that work?”

Bobby shook his head. “No, I need a name for that to work. We can try following the signs though. Weather patterns. A demon pulling out this kind of mojo has to be putting out all kind of signs.”

Dean nodded. It was the best chance he had.

“What I wouldn’t give to have Ash here right now,” Dean said, thinking of his deceased friend. He had been a first-class genius on computers and had been able to create a program to track down signs of Yellow-Eyes.

“Wouldn’t we all,” a voice said behind them.

Dean turned and saw Ellen and Jo standing in the doorway. “You two are supposed to be keeping safe.”

“The door wasn’t closed right,” Ellen said. “Anyway, we heard you talking. We haven’t got Ash, but we’ve got the next best thing. He taught Jo here everything he knew.”

Jo huffed a laugh. “He tried. I know enough to track the signs.”

Bobby handed her the laptop. “In that case, you just became our best hope.”

Jo smiled and sat down at the desk. Flipping open the laptop, she got to work.

xXx

Dean pored over the map on the laptop. Jo had tracked down the most likely location to a small town called Buxton in North Dakota, but she hadn’t been able to get an exact fix. Dean remembered the barn from his trip with Tessa, so he was looking for likely places. The place was tiny, but there were two farms in the area that looked like they had at least two barns.

“We’re going to have to go search,” Dean said.

Bobby nodded. “Just let me get some gear together and I’ll be ready to go.”

“No, Bobby!” Dean said quickly. “You need to stay here.”

“And why’s that?”

Dean rallied for a good excuse. He couldn’t tell Bobby he was next in line for the dirt nap since Dean had gone searching for the Black Dog. He wasn’t afraid of Bobby’s temper. He knew he deserved all he got in that respect. He just didn’t want to see the acceptance of fate in Bobby’s eyes that he was sure would be there. “Because you need to stay here and keep an eye on Ellen and Jo.”

Bobby stared into his eyes, and Dean was sure he was searching for the lie there. He looked back at Bobby, betraying nothing.

“Fine,” Bobby huffed. “I’ll stay here, but you’re not going alone. I’ll call Rufus up and he can meet you there. He should be close enough now.”

Bobby reached across the desk for his phone and began dialing. Dean went out to the Impala and checked the trunk for what he would need. He had Ruby’s knife and his anti-possession tattoo, but he wanted to be loaded with hardware too. He knew a gunshot wouldn’t kill a demon, but a few well-aimed shots to the knees might slow it down.

He heard footsteps behind him and Pamela’s voice. “You’re going after it then.”

“Don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

“I guess you don’t. Tell me, Dean, do you ever get tired of saving people?”

Dean smiled wryly. “Only every day. But these are people I care about. I can’t let them die.”

She sighed. “Your energy is all out of whack again.”

Dean huffed a laugh. “I’ll make sure to come to you for a cleansing ritual once I’m done killing this demon.”

“I don’t think you’ll need to,” she said. “It seems to me that what you’re doing is your own version of cleansing. You’re a protector, and you’re only at peace when you’re doing that.”

Dean considered. He was a protector. At least he had been. He hadn’t been able to protect the person that mattered most though.

“Whoa, what was that?” she asked.

“What was what?” Dean asked innocently.

“Your aura just flashed purple. What were you thinking?” She considered him carefully. “Was it Sam?”

Dean shook his head brusquely. “I’m fine.” He was annoyed that he had slipped. He thought the last of his grief had been dealt with at Sam’s grave. He had felt so at peace then.

“You can talk to me Dean.”

“What are you, a shrink?”

“Yes,” she said simply and then laughed at his shocked expression. “You think I pass my days chatting away on the Ouija board? I have to have a sideline, Dean.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” he said, slamming the trunk. “As for now, this session is over. I’ve got a demon to kill.”

xXx

The drive to Buxton took a few hours, even with Dean’s casual acceptance of traffic laws. He had the two farms marked down on his map, and he arrived around dusk. The rain was pelting down and thunder rumbled overhead; those were the signs that had led Jo to believe that this was where the demon was holed up.

He parked at the end of a long lane, not wanting to alert the demon to his arrival with the rumble of an engine, and jogged along the track to the farm. It was surrounded by fields. On one side was what looked like barley and on the other was a field of sunflowers. It was quite the sight, with the full-headed flowers as far as the eye could see.

He reached the farm and knew almost immediately that this wasn’t the place. There was a car parked outside the house and lights were burning in the windows. He figured even the most dense farmer would notice someone camped out doing spells in their barn.

Thankful that he hadn’t been spotted by a shotgun-toting farmer, he turned on his heel and made his way back down the track. When he reached the car, he climbed in and pulled out his phone, dialing Rufus’ number.

He picked up on the first ring. “I’m almost there, Dean. Just on the outskirts of town.”

“I’ve checked the first place,” Dean said. “And it’s a bust. There’s no way a demon is holed up there. Head to the place on Reeves Lane.”

“On it.”

Dean pulled out onto the road and made his way across town to the second farm. He stopped at the end of the lane again, and sat in the car with the wipers squeaking across the windshield. Rufus arrived ten minutes later, his old Zodiac chugging to a stop beside the Impala. He climbed out, tugging his long coat close around him, and Dean met him.

“You think this is the place?” Rufus asked.

Dean nodded. “If the demon’s in town, it’s here.” He looked up the track at the house and saw that it was in darkness, but there was a dim glow coming from the side of the house, where he’d bet the Impala the barn was located.

“Let’s get to it then,” Rufus said. “You got that zippy knife Bobby told me about?”

Dean pulled the knife out of his pocket and held it up. “Guaranteed to kill lesser demons. I'm not so sure about the others. The Reaper said it was a lesser demon doing the spell work, so we should be good to go.”

Rufus nodded. “Come on then. We’re not going to kill anything standing around here.”

They made their way along the track towards the farm. The closer they got the more sure Dean was that this was the place. The light was coming from between the slats of the barn, and the farmhouse was in darkness. If there was ever a good place for a demon to hole up, this was it.

Their footsteps sounded inordinately loud between the claps of thunder and Dean expected to be caught out at any moment, but they made it to the barn without being accosted. Signaling to each other in silence, they each took a side of the barn door and pulled out their weapons. Dean had the knife and Rufus was armed with a heavy looking Glock.

On the count of three, Dean thrust open the barn door and stormed inside, Rufus hot on his heels.

It was the right place. The demon was there, sitting in the center of a circle of candles. She didn’t look remotely perturbed to see them bursting in, though. If anything, she looked amused.

She got smoothly to her feet and stared at them both. “Dean Winchester and Rufus Turner, I am honored. I didn’t think I’d get you two coming after me.”

“I'm just as shocked as you are,” Dean said. “I thought you were on your way out after dealing with Sam.”

She shrugged. “What can I say? I got a reprieve. My boss thought I’d done a good turn after all.”

“Happy for ya,” Dean said sarcastically, raising the knife.

“You think you’re going to kill me?” she asked. “How sweet. You really are a deluded little meat sack, aren’t you? Now, two against one, that’s hardly fair, is it?”

“We’re not in the business of fair,” Rufus said grimly. “We’re in the business of killing.”

“Your parents must be so proud,” she said nonchalantly.

Rufus lifted his gun and aimed it at the demon’s heart. “I don’t know about proud, but they’ll at least be satisfied once they’ve seen me killing you.”

With an airy wave of the hand, she sent Rufus skidding back across the barn to collide heavily with the wooden wall. The breath huffed out of him on impact and he groaned. Getting thrown across the room was never fun, Dean knew, but it had to hurt a lot more when you were Rufus’ age.

The demon turned appraising eyes to Dean and he fixed his eyes on the amulet around her throat. He needed to get to it before he joined Rufus in the flung against the wall club. He lunged forward and reached for her, but she blocked him with a blow against the cheek. He reeled back, holding a hand to his face, and spat a mouthful of blood at her.

She dodged back, missing the shot, and grinned. “That was impolite, Dean. You’re going to have to pay.”

She flung out a hand and he was knocked off his feet. Ruby’s knife skittered out of his hand and across the floor. He reached for it, but the demon kicked it aside.

“You and I are going to have a little chat,” she crooned in his ear, “about Sammy.”

“Leave my brother out of this,” Dean snarled.

“Not a chance,” she said. “It’s been a while since we spoke, and I have a lot of news. You see, I have made a trip back home to see the show, and what a show it was. You should see your brother now, Dean. He’s really suffering.”

“Sam’s strong,” Dean said through gritted teeth.

“So strong,” she said in a singsong voice. “And believe me, he’s needed to be to survive Lilith as long as he has.”

“Lilith? She’s not in Hell. She’s up here breaking the seals.”

“What can I say? Even demons need a little downtime. Sam is getting the VIP treatment in the pit.” She smiled. “And we thought _you_ were special, getting Alastair the way you did. Alastair is a novice compared to Lilith. She learned at the hands of Lucifer himself. There is not a way of causing pain that she doesn’t know.”

“Don’t listen, Dean!” Rufus shouted.

Dean grimaced and tried to block out the demon’s words. He didn’t want to hear this. He couldn’t hear it. He had to fight through it.

The demon leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “He’ll be sporting a pair of black eyes like ours in no time.”

“You wish, bitch,” Dean growled. He spat in her face again, and she pulled back. That was her mistake. As she had been taunting him, enjoying his capitulation, Dean had been bringing his hand up to grip the amulet at her throat. As she pulled back, the cord broke and Dean was left holding the amulet. He leapt to his feet and crushed the amulet under his boot.

The demon screamed her fury and came at Dean with her hands clawed, but Dean was already in motion. He dashed across the room and picked up Ruby’s knife.

He advanced on her, holding up the blade. The demon looked into his eyes, and Dean knew she was seeing the determination there. He was going to kill this demon and he was going to enjoy it.

She threw back her head and black smoke poured out. The girl the demon had been possessing crumpled to the ground. Dean cursed, slashing the knife through the air as if it could harm the demon still, but it merely passed through the smoke as it made its exit through the barn doors.

Sighing to himself, Dean squatted beside the fallen girl and pressed his fingers to her throat.

“She dead?” Rufus asked, coming to stand beside him.

Dean nodded. “Yeah.” He got to his feet and made for the door.

“I’ll put the call in.”

Dean knew Rufus was talking about an anonymous tip to the police to alert them to the girl’s body. They were too late to save her but, hopefully, the police would be able to identify her. It wouldn’t bring them much comfort, but the family would at least get closure.

Dean kicked over the candle, casting the barn into darkness, and then made his way out along the path.

Rufus caught up with him halfway down the track. “About what that demon said, about Sam…”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Rufus,” Dean snapped.

“That’s cool,” Rufus said. “But if you change your mind…”

Dean nodded curtly. He didn’t want to talk about it with anyone, least of all Rufus who hadn’t even known Sam.

They parted ways at the cars, and Dean set the engine running. He knew he had to get out of there, the police were coming, but he couldn’t muster any real feeling about that. His mind was occupied with thoughts of what the demon had said. Was it possible that Lilith was really the one working on Sam? It had been bad enough when he thought it was Alastair, but Lilith…

xXx

Dean was halfway back to Sioux Falls when an unexpected visitor materialized in the passenger side of the car. Dean was so shocked that he swerved the car into the wrong lane.

“Castiel!”

“Hello, Dean.”

“What the hell?” he asked, righting the car. “Are you trying to get me killed?”

“No,” Castiel said solemnly. “What good would you be to the cause dead?”

“It was a… Never mind.”

“You broke the spell. The Reaper, Tessa, is freed.”

“Well, that’s good,” Dean said.

“Yes, but another seal was broken. A congregation of devout souls was bombed.”

“Wasn’t the Westboro Baptists, was it?” Dean asked with an edge of hope in his voice.

Castiel shook his head. “No it was a church in Rio de Janeiro.”

“So enslaving the reapers wasn’t a seal?”

“No, it was merely a distraction,” Castiel said.

Dean sighed and pulled the car over to the side of the road. “Castiel, can I ask you something?” Castiel remained silent so Dean took that as an affirmative. “Can you see Sam?” He told him what the demon had said about Lilith torturing Sam.

“I cannot confirm or deny what the demon said. We are not able to see Hell unless we were to infiltrate it. Lilith is able to enter and exit Hell at whim. It’s entirely possible that she is the one presiding over your brother.”

Dean didn’t expect Castiel to make him feel better, but he didn’t expect it to be said in that dispassionate tone, as if Sam suffering in Hell was as little importance as the movement of ants. Then he realized that, for Castiel, that wasn’t a bad comparison. To him, Sam and Dean were ants, unworthy of notice unless it was to meet his own ends. He supposed it made sense, even though it hurt him to admit it. Castiel was an angel. Why would he care about humans?

He turned his head to ask Castiel another question, but the angel had gone. He was alone again. Wanting nothing more than other people to distract him from his thoughts, he started the car and pulled out onto the road again, thinking he could at least deliver some good news to Ellen and Jo.

Broken seal and news of Sam aside, he called the evening a success.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

 

Dean squatted down and peered into the oven. Bobby was questioning the widow, and Dean was using her distraction to get a good look around the place. They’d been at Rufus’ place in Vermont, coming down off a vampire nest hunt in Maine when they’d been brought to Wakefield, Massachusetts by the report of a man being killed by razor blades hidden in Halloween candy.

“The candy was never in the oven,” the widow said tearfully.

Dean straightened and gave her an apologetic smile. “We have to be very thorough, Mrs. Wallace.”

Bobby asked her another question, drawing her attention from Dean, and he got back to work, scouting out the kitchen. It was a nice place, as was the rest of the house that he’d seen. The counters were a spotless white and there were plenty of appliances on the counters that Dean didn’t have the first idea how to use. There was a highchair against one of the wall, highlighting the fact their victim had left a family behind. Though he couldn’t have done a thing to save the man, he didn’t know anything about the case until after the man’s death, Dean felt guilty for another life lost.

He saw a scrap of color at the side of the fridge, and he bent to examine it. “Yatzee,” he muttered, picking up the hex bag.

He held it up behind the widow’s back, catching Bobby’s eyes, and received a covert nod in return. Bobby asked a few more questions and they made their exit.

The widow saw them to the door and begged them to keep her informed should they find anything out. Dean felt bad for her. No matter what they found out, they could never share it with her. Even if they could, she wouldn’t understand, not really. You had to be a special kind of person to embrace the supernatural without losing your mind altogether.

They got back to the car and Dean climbed in behind the wheel. “What do you think?” he asked, holding up the hex bag.

“Witches,” Bobby said gruffly. “And judging by the method of death, we’re talking powerful ones. This isn’t some angsty teen dabbling with a spell book. It takes serious mojo to pull something like this off.”

Dean shuddered. “Ugh, witches. I really hate them.”

“I’m not exactly a member of their fan club either.”

Bobby untied the hex bag and laid it open on his lap. He sucked in a breath between his teeth.

“What’s up?” Dean asked.

Dean looked over at the contents of the bag. There was a weird little black thing, what looked like an old coin and a weird dried flower.

“We need to get back to Rufus,” Bobby said.

“You’re kinda worrying me, Bobby.”

“It’s a good day to be worried. Now, get the car in gear and get us back to the motel. I need Rufus’ opinion on this.”

Worried, Dean started the engine and pulled away from the road.

Rufus was waiting when they got back to the motel, kicked back on Dean’s bed with a book open in his lap. “Good day at the office?” he asked.

“Hardly,” Bobby huffed. “Come take a look at this.”

Rufus swung his legs around on the bed and got to his feet. Bobby laid out the hex bag on the small, rickety table and Rufus peered down at it.

“Oh dear,” he said.

“One of you mind filling me in?” Dean asked resentfully. He was feeling distinctly out of the loop.

“This here”—Rufus held up the small black object—“is the charred metacarpal bone of a newborn.”

Dean stepped back. “Okay, that’s just messed up. What about that?” He pointed to the dried flower, leery of touching after that revelation.

“Goldthread, an herb that’s been extinct for two hundred years. And the coin looks Celtic. Genuine Celtic, not some new age knock off.”

“How can you tell?” Dean asked.

“I can tell because I have been doing this since before you were a twinkle in your daddy’s eye,” Rufus said acerbically. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen something like this. Remember Salem, Bobby?”

Bobby nodded. “Back in the eighty-six, or was it eighty-seven?”

Rufus grinned. “Those crazy wenches were trying to raise the dead. Good times.”

“Okay, not that I’m not enjoying the trip down dementia lane, but let’s focus on the case we’ve got going on. So, you’re saying you’ve seen something like this before?”

“Not exactly,” Bobby said. “The witches back then were using mojo to try and bring back the witches of the trials. They didn’t succeed, but there were deaths of innocents—sacrifices.”

“Witches, man, they’re so friggin’ skeevy.”

“Anyway,” Rufus said. “We ganked them before they could actually do the raising, but like Bobby said, there were deaths. Whatever’s happening now, we’ve got to be prepared.”

“You mean kill the witch?” Dean asked.

Rufus nodded solemnly. “Yeah. That gonna be a problem for you?”

Dean shook his head. “Witches are fuglys like any other. Just point me at them and I’ll do the rest.”

“You got the library in the trunk, Bobby?” Rufus asked.

“As much as I could fit in.”

“Good. We need to know what this witch is trying to do. Dean, I know you’ll hate to miss the research, but how about you go get us some food.”

Dean nodded enthusiastically. “On it.”

He checked he had his wallet and made for the door. As he turned the handle, Bobby shouted after him. “None of your greasy hamburger crap. We want proper food.”

Dean grinned. “Soup for the two octogenarians.”

He ducked out of the door and slammed it closed. He heard something collide with the door and he wondered what Bobby had thrown at him.

xXx

They had just finished eating the pasta Dean had managed to finagle from the town’s better dining establishment when the police scanner crackled to life.

“All units to Richardson Street. We have a fatality at a party.”

“Unit five responding,” a voice replied. “Any more details?”

The scratchy voice of the dispatcher came through. “Apparently the girl drowned while apple bobbing.”

“Sounds like us,” Rufus said. “You two want to take it or should I suit up?”

“We’ve got it,” Bobby said. “You keep with the books.”

Dean fixed the collar of his shirt and put his tie on again. He hated the monkey suit but it was harder to make people believe you were a cop when in denim and plaid.

He went out to the car and waited for Bobby to finish putting the finishing touches to his cop suit. He came out a minute later, sans the trucker cap and with his hair slicked back. “Ready?”

Dean started the engine. “Ready.”

The address was only a couple minutes drive from the motel but the cops beat them there. Dean sighed at the thought of dealing with local yokels. He wasn’t good at the tact thing. He usually left that stuff to Sam.

They got past the cop at the door with a flash of their fake fed badges and made their way down to the basement where all the action seemed to be happening.

“You want the witness?” Bobby asked.

Dean looked over and saw a young blonde girl wrapped in a grey blanket talking to a cop. He nodded.

“It’s just so weird,” the girl was saying. “The water in the tub wasn’t hot; I had just been in there myself.

The cop nodded and looked up as Dean approached. “Your friend didn’t happen to know a man named Luke Wallace?” he asked.

The girl turned to him and eyed him appraisingly.

Dean held up his badge. “Agent Seger, FBI.”

The cop sighed and walked away, leaving Dean talking to the girl.

“Tracy Davis,” the girl said, smiling coyly at Dean. “Um, who’s Luke Wallace?” she asked.

“He died yesterday.”

Tracy shook her head. “I don’t know who that is.”

Behind her back, Bobby held up a small, brown hex bag and gestured to the door.

“Okay, well if you think of anything, please call me,” Dean said, handing her a business card.

She smiled flirtatiously. “I’ll make sure to do that, _agent.”_

Dean held back a groan with effort. He hoped he wasn’t about to get a ton of heavy breathing calls from the girl. He once might have got a kick out of that, before Sam, before Hell, but now he merely thought what a pain in the ass it would be to have to change his number.

He followed Bobby back to the car and climbed in. Before he had he even started the engine, his phone rang. “That was quick,” he muttered, connecting the call. “Agent Seger.”

“It’s me,” Rufus said. “I’ve got something.”

“We’ll be right there,” Dean said.

When they got back to the motel, Rufus was pacing the room. There was a stack of books on the table, one open to a page with a hellish looking illustration.

“What’ve we got?” Dean asked.

Rufus crossed the room and picked up the book. “Bad news. Listen to this. Three blood sacrifices over three days, the last before midnight on the final day of the final harvest. Celtic Calendar, the final day of the final harvest is October thirty-first.”

Bobby sighed. “Halloween.”

Rufus nodded. “Exactly.”

“What exactly are the blood sacrifices for?” Dean asked, half-afraid of the answer.

“If I’m right, this witch is summoning a demon, and not just any demon—Samhain.”

Bobby cursed but Dean looked confused. “Samhain?”

“You want to take this one?” Rufus asked Bobby.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Bobby explained. “Dean, Samhain is the origin of Halloween. The Celts believe that October thirty-first was the one night of the year when the veil was the thinnest between the living and the dead, and it was Samhain’s night. Masks were put on to hide from him, sweets left on doorsteps to appease him, faces carved into pumpkins to worship him. He was exorcised centuries ago.”

“So even though Samhain took a trip downstairs, the tradition stuck?“ Dean asked.

Bobby nodded. “Exactly, only now instead of demons and blood orgies Halloween is all about kids, candy and costumes.

“So some witch wants to raise Samhain and take back the night?”

Rufus dropped the book down onto the table. “We’re talking heavyweight witchcraft. This ritual can only be performed every six hundred years.”

“And the six hundred year marker rolls around…?”

“Tomorrow night,” Rufus said.

Dean looked at the book Rufus had dropped down on the table. There was a black and white picture of a horned demon standing atop a pile of bodies holding up a severed head. “It sure is a lot of death and destruction for one demon.”

“That’s because he likes company,” Rufus said. “Once he's raised, Samhain can do some raising of his own.”

Dean felt a chill of fear creep down his spine. “Raising what, exactly?”

“Dark, evil and lots of it. It starts with ghosts and ghouls. This thing keeps on going. By night's end, we are talking every awful thing we have ever seen. Everything we fight, all in one place.”

Dean felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “It’s gonna be a slaughterhouse.”

Rufus nodded soberly. “Yeah.”

xXx

The next morning, Dean was parked outside the Wallace house. He’d been in to talk to the widow again, but he’d got no new clues of how the witch was targeting her victims. He had just started the engine when he spotted someone coming along the street. It was the blonde girl from the crime scene the night before, Tracy. She scaled the steps to the Wallace house and knocked on the door. Mrs. Wallace appeared and exchanged a few words with the girl, and then handed over the baby from her arms. Tracy entered the house and Mrs. Wallace closed the door behind her.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered. He put the car in gear and drove back to the motel.

Bobby and Rufus were sitting at the table with a pile of books between them. They looked up as Dean came in.

“Get anything from the widow?” Bobby asked.

“No, but I found out something about the little blonde witness from last night, like the fact she’s a big fat liar. She said she didn’t know Luke Wallace, but it looks like she’s the babysitter. I think we’ve found our witch. She’s got a connection with both victims.”

“Huh,” Bobby said. “Interesting look for a centuries old witch.”

“Yeah, well, if you were a six-hundred-year hag and you could pick any costume to come back in, wouldn't you go for a hot cheerleader?”

Bobby picked up the laptop from the bed and opened it. “What did she say her name was?”

“Tracy Davis.”

Bobby worked at the laptop for a few minutes, grumbling to himself about the slow speed of the motel’s Wi-Fi, and then he turned the laptop so Dean could see the screen. “This our girl?”

Dean examined the picture and nodded. “That’s her. What’s it say?”

Bobby turned the laptop again and pressed a few keys. “Basic details, address, email. Oh, here’s something. Tracy’s not as wholesome as she looks. Apparently she got into a violent altercation with one of her teachers, got suspended from school.”

“A teacher, huh.”

Bobby nodded. “A Mr. Don Harding.”

“Think he’ll be up to a chat with a couple of feds?” Dean asked.

“Only one way to find out,” Bobby said getting to his feet. “It’s time to suit up.”

“While you two mooks are doing that, I’ll check out the witch’s house. See if I can get a shot off.”

“Don’t you think we should wait for proof?” Bobby asked. “You know I don’t mind killing witches, but what if she’s an innocent.”

Rufus shrugged. “Then we lose one innocent life. If Samhain rises, the world is gonna suffer. We can’t risk it.”

“We’ve still got”—Bobby checked his watch—“ten hours till dark. Let’s check this teacher out first. She could just be a liar.”

“Or she could be a witch,” Dean said.

Rufus sighed. “You’ve got an hour. If you find proof, I’ll take the witch out. If you don’t… Well, then I’d say it’s time to pray.”

Dean nodded and went to change into his suit.

When they were in the car, Bobby twisted in his seat to look at Dean. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Dean asked with an innocent expression.

“You egging Rufus on to kill a teenage girl.”

“A teenage witch,” Dean said. “What’s with you? It was like you were channeling…” He broke off, unwilling to say the name. He had been doing well that day, his thoughts hadn’t dwelled on Sam too much, but that had all gone to hell.

“Sam?” Bobby asked. “Maybe I was. He would have wanted proof too.”

“Since when did you need proof?”

“Since when did you not?”

Dean shrugged. “Since I lost one too many people to the evil in the world. If we gank this witch, we save a lot of people.”

“And if we get the wrong person?”

“Then we find the real witch and kill her too. I’m not saying I _want_ to kill. I’m just saying that might be the price we have to pay.”

Bobby sighed. “We better get moving then. We’ve only got an hour to work.”

When they arrived at the school, they introduced themselves at the front desk and were led to a classroom by a helpful secretary.

Hanging from the ceiling were masks of horribly twisted faces. Dean cast them a passing glance and shuddered. They were a little too familiar.

“You okay, Dean?” Bobby asked.

Dean was saved from answering by the arrival of a teacher. He was carrying a cardboard box with a mug of coffee balanced on the top. “I hear you gentlemen wanna talk to me?” He set down his box and placed the coffee on the desk, and then shook their hands, introducing himself as Don Harding.

Dean and Bobby pulled out their badges in unison. “I’m agent Seger, this is Agent Lee. We just had a few questions about Tracy Davis.”

“Uh, yeah, Tracy, uh, bright kid, loads of talent. It’s a shame she got suspended. She got here about a year ago, alone, as I understood it, as an emancipated teen. God only knows what her parents were like.”

“You two had a violent altercation,” Bobby said.

Don nodded. “Yeah, she exploded. If Principal Murrow hadn’t walked by when he did, Tracy would have clawed my eyes out.

“Why?” Dean asked.

“I, uh, you know, I was only trying to rap with her about her work. It had gotten inappropriate and disturbing. She would cover page after page with these bizarre cryptic symbols, and then there were the drawings. Detailed images of killings, gory, primitive, and she would depict herself in the middle of them, participating.”

Bobby rooted in his pocket. “Symbols, what kind of symbols? Anything like this?” He held up the small coin they’d found in the first hex bag.

Don nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I think that might have been one of them.”

Dean and Bobby exchanged a dark look. It looked like they’d found their witch after all.

“Why are you asking about Tracy?” Don asked.

“She was witness to a suspicious death,” Bobby said smoothly. “We’re just checking out her history.”

“Well, she’s a good kid mostly. She just lost her way.”

Bobby nodded. “Thank you for your help. If we need anything more we’ll be in touch.”

Don saw them to the door and then clicked it closed behind them.

“You think we’ve found the witch?” Dean asked.

Bobby sighed. “Yeah. Put the call in. Rufus can take care of her.”

Dean pulled the phone from his pocket and dialed Rufus’ number. “It’s a go on the witch,” he said when Rufus answered.

“Okay. You want in?” Rufus asked.

“Yeah, it’s better if we got up against her together. There’s no knowing what tricks she could have up her sleeve.”

“I’ll see you soon then,” Rufus said and ended the call.

“We going on a witch hunt?” Bobby asked soberly.

Dean nodded.

They drove over to the witch’s apartment complex and Dean took a moment to look around. It was a smart place and the rent couldn’t have been cheap. He wondered how she funded it and then he realized, for a centuries old witch, getting cash must be easy.

Rufus was waiting for them in his old Zodiac. When they pulled up beside him, he climbed out. “We all packing?”

Dean patted his inside pocket where his gun was concealed. “Yep.”

Bobby nodded. “Yeah. Are we gonna do this?”

“You can’t still be having doubts,” Dean said incredulously.

“I’m not,” Bobby said irritably. “I’m just not looking forward to this. She might be a witch but she still looks like a teenage girl.”

Rufus sighed heavily. “Teenage girl or not, she’s killed two people so far and she’s got her sights set on the rest of the world. We’re doing a good thing here. Now, come on, she’s probably watching from the window, cooking something up for us.”

Dean took the lead and hurried to the door. Rufus’ words had settled over him and now he was worried about what the witch could be doing to prepare for their arrival. He knew the odds were in their favor. There were three of them and though she was a powerful witch, she was still human. She would die like any other fugly.

He decided an open offensive was the way to go. She may not have figured out what they were doing yet, she may still think they were still feds, so he knocked on the door and called out, “Miss. Davis. It’s Agent Seger. I need to talk to you.”

There were no sounds from inside and the door remained closed.

“Shall we break it down?” Rufus asked.

Dean shook his head and rooted through his pockets. “No need. I’ve got this.” He held up his lock pick. “You keep an eye out for witnesses.” Squatting down in front of the door, he set to work. It took about a minute for him to catch the right spot and the tumblers fell into place. He eased the door open, reaching into his pocket for his gun.

At first glance, the room looked utterly normal. The furniture was all lightwood and cream leather and the walls were a deep taupe. Against the walls were two bookshelves with heavy tomes. Dean moved from room to room, expecting to be accosted at any minute, but there was no one there. He was searching the closet, thinking he’d at least find some kind of altar, when he heard Bobby’s voice call from the lounge. “Dean, get a look at this.”

Dean hurried back into the lounge to see Bobby holding a heavy book. It was obviously old, and the pages were thick. “What is it?”

“A Grimoire.” Bobby said. “Spell book. She left it behind which means either she’s coming back or…”

“Or she doesn’t need it anymore,” Rufus said. “She’s probably been studying the ritual for centuries, waiting for the right anniversary.”

“So, what do we do now?” Dean asked. “She could be anywhere.”

“We load up on weapons and go find her.”

“Sounds easy enough,” Dean said sarcastically. “We’ve only got a whole town to search.”

“We’ve got this,” Bobby said, flipping through the pages of the book. “Here! There’s a locator spell. We just need something of the witch’s to track her.”

Dean picked up a hairbrush from the back of the couch. There were strands of blonde hair caught in the bristles. “This work?”

Bobby nodded with a satisfied expression. “That’ll do just fine.”

xXx

Rufus was the first into the motel room, so he was the first that saw their visitors. He raised his gun and shouted. “Who are you?”

Dean rushed in, his own gun raised, but when he caught sight of Castiel, he lowered his gun and then put a hand on Rufus’. It wasn’t like a bullet could hurt Castiel, and Dean had thought about shooting him many times just for the sheer aggravation the angel caused, but it would probably piss him off and he was hard enough to deal with at the best of times.

“It’s Castiel. The angel.” He looked across the room and saw another figure. He was bald and dark-skinned. Even though he was standing with his back to Dean, Dean could see that he was powerfully built. “Him, I don’t know. Who’s your friend?” he asked Castiel.

Castiel disregarded the question and asked one of his own. “The raising of Samhain, have you stopped it? Have you located the witch?”

“Yes, we’ve located the witch.”

“And is the witch dead?”

“Not yet. But we know who she is and—“

“Apparently the witch knows who you are too,” Castiel said holding up a hex bag. “This was inside the wall of your room. If we hadn’t found it, surely one or all of you would be dead. Do you know where the witch is now?”

Bobby and Dean exchanged a look. “We’re working on it.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Castiel said mildly.

“What do you care?” Rufus asked boldly.

“The raising of Samhain is one of the sixty-six seals. Lucifer cannot rise. The breaking of the seal must be prevented at all costs.”

“Okay, great, well now that you’re here, why don’t you tell us where the witch is, we’ll gank her and everybody goes home.”

“We are not omniscient,” Castiel said. “This witch is very powerful; she’s cloaked to even our methods.

“But we’ve got a spell,” Bobby said, “to track her.”

“It will not work,” Castiel said. “If we cannot trace her, you will not be able to either.”

“Okay, well we already know who she is, so if we work together –“

“Enough of this,” the man at the window snapped.

Dean’s temper rose. “Okay, who are you and why should I care?”

The man turned slowly and cast Dean a look of utmost contempt.

“This is Uriel,” Castiel said. “He’s what you might call a… specialist.”

“What kind of specialist? What are you gonna do?”

The man smiled but remained silent.

Castiel looked from his partner to Dean. “You—all of you—need to leave this town immediately.“

“Why?”

“Because we’re about to destroy it,” Castiel said, his tone devoid of all emotion.

Dean’s mind reeled. The whole town gone. It was too much to wrap his mind around. The thought that angels, God’s chosen, could do this and show no remorse at the prospect revolted him.

“So this is your plan, you’re gonna smite the whole friggin’ town?

“We’re out of time. This witch has to die, the seal must be saved.”

“There are a thousand people here,” Bobby said.

“One thousand two hundred fourteen,” Uriel said with relish.

Dean crossed his arms over his chest. “And you’re willing to kill them all?”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve purified a city."

“Look, I understand this is regrettable,” Castiel began

Dean scowled at him. “Regrettable?”

“We have to hold the line. Too many seals have broken already. It’s the lives of one thousand against the lives of six billion. There’s a bigger picture here.”

Dean scoffed. “Right, cause you’re bigger picture kind of guys.”

“Lucifer cannot rise,” Castiel said. “He does and hell rises with him. Is that something that you’re willing to risk?”

“We'll stop this witch before she summons anyone,” Bobby said. “Your seal won't be broken and no one has to die.”

“C’mon, man,” Dean said staring into Castiel’s eyes. “I’m supposed to be stopping the seals breaking. The first time I actually have a chance of doing it and you won’t even let me try?”

“We're wasting time with these mud monkeys,” Uriel said harshly.

“Screw you, baldy,” Dean said angrily. “I’m not talking to you, I’m talking to him. C’mon, Castiel, give me a chance.”

Castiel seemed to be sizing Dean up. “You realize if you are to fail the world will suffer terrible consequences?”

“Castiel! I will not let these peop—“

Castiel held up a hand, cutting Uriel off. “Enough.” He stared at Dean. “I suggest you move quickly.”

Dean nodded. “You know it.”

Uriel looked furious but Castiel nodded. With a fluttering sound, they both disappeared.

“Big talk,” Rufus said. “But do you have the first idea of how we’re supposed to find the witch? Your buddies said the spell won’t work.”

Dean shook his head and sighed heavily. He didn’t have a clue about tracking a witch without a spell but he knew he had to try; he couldn’t let a thousand people die because of his failure. He had to find a way.

Bobby sucked in a breath and Dean turned to face him. “The bone. It was charred, right. Well, you don’t get temperatures like that with a regular fire. We’re talking serious heat.”

Dean clapped a hand to his forehead. “A kiln.”

Bobby nodded. “And the hex bag. That didn’t show up until we spoke to the teacher.”

“You saying we’ve got two witches to take out?” Rufus asked.

“I think so.”

“Well, damn,” Rufus said. “That just made our job twice as hard.”

“At least we’ve got a place to start looking,” Dean said. “Bobby, can you hack the school records again. If Tracy’s not working the mojo at her place, our next bet is the man-witch’s.”

xXx

Don Harding lived in a large house in the residential area of the town. Children and their chaperones were strolling the streets in full Halloween costume, carrying bags of candy. Don’s house was in darkness, but a couple of kids tried the doorbell anyway only to receive no response.

“We gonna sit here all night?” Bobby asked.

In response, Dean climbed out of the car and made for the porch. Bobby whistled, getting his attention, and shook his head. “No point knocking. Look there.” He was pointing around the side of the house at a small window at ground level where flickering candlelight was burning.

“Looks like the party’s happening in the basement,” Dean said. “Should we wait for Rufus?”

Bobby shook his head. “No, the longer we wait the more chance there is that we’ll be too late.”

Dean looked up and down the street. There were too many people to risk going in through the front. He made his way around the house to the back door. “What do you think, stealth or force?” he asked Bobby.

“Stealth,” Bobby said. “And leave the door hanging. Rufus will need a way to get in when he finally arrives.”

“You sure we shouldn’t wait for him?”

“He can be our second defense. If we go down on this, he can maybe catch the witches off guard. Remember, they both need to die.”

“And you’re okay with that?” Dean asked.

“I don’t have much choice, do I? It’s these two or the world according to your angel buddies.”

“They’re no buddies of mine,” Dean said firmly. “Pair of feathered dicks.”

He bent to pick the lock of the door while Bobby checked the rounds in his gun. As the lock clicked, Dean pulled out his own gun and pointed it at the door. Bobby eased it open and they came into an ordinary looking kitchen. There was nothing there to make you think you had just entered the home of a powerful witch.

Bobby gestured to a door leading off of the room and Dean nodded. He positioned himself at the side of the door and waited as Bobby slowly turned the handle and pushed it open. Dean heard a voice talking and muffled cries. His heart pounded. Were they too late? Had the ritual been started already? Had he already failed?

Without casting Bobby a backwards glance, Dean pounded down the steps into the basement. Like Bobby’s panic room, there was a second room in the basement, but thankfully, it didn’t have an iron door. It was merely made of cheap fiberboard and when Dean kicked at the lock, it burst open.

He took a split second to take in the scene in the room. Tracy was bound with rope, and tied to the ceiling. Her feet barely touched the floor. Don was standing at an altar that was draped with black cloth and marked with symbols. Perched on top was what looked like a ram’s skull. Don turned as he entered, and Dean saw there was a silver goblet in his hands. He didn’t know what the ritual was supposed to look like, but the fact Tracy was still breathing made him think they had averted it in time.

He raised his gun and sent three shots pounding into Don’s chest. Bobby raced in behind him and went to Tracy. He pulled off her gag.

“Thank you,” she gasped, every inch the victim. “He was gonna kill me! Ugh, that sick son of a bitch. I mean, did you see what he was doing? Did you hear him?” She paused. “How sloppy his incantation was?”

She looked up and chanted something that sounded like ‘dim atom’. The ropes binding her to the ceiling broke and she was freed. She stretched her arms out. “My brother—“ Dean raised his gun again but before he could make the shot she threw up an arm and he and Bobby were sent sprawling to the floor. Agonizing pain twisted his gut and the groans coming from Bobby made him think he was experiencing the same thing. “—Always was a little dim.“

She turned to the altar and picked up the goblet. “He was gonna make me the final sacrifice, his idea, but now, that honor goes to him. Our master’s return? The spell work’s a two-man job you understand, so for six hundred years I had to deal with that pompous son of a bitch. Planning, preparing, unbearable. The whole time I wanted to rip his face off.” She bent beside Don and probed at his wounds with a knife. Blood poured into the goblet and she rose.

“And you get him with a gun, uh, love that.” She moved back to the altar, cradling the goblet of blood in her hands. “You know, back in the day, this was the one day you kept your children inside. Well tonight you’ll all see what Halloween really is.” She looked up and down. “Am I forgetting something?”

“Yeah,” a familiar voice came from behind them. “Me.”

Gunshots cracked out and Tracy fell to the floor.

The pain crippling Dean disappeared and he got slowly to his feet.

Rufus was kneeling beside Tracy with his finger to her throat.

“She dead?” Dean asked harshly.

Rufus nodded. “Yeah. Bobby, you want to hunt up some petrol.”

Bobby disappeared and Dean watched him go with a furrowed brow. “Why do we need petrol?”

“Because, knuckle head, vengeful spirits are bad, but the vengeful spirit of a witch is so much worse. Now, make yourself useful and get some salt. We’ve got a house to burn.”

xXx

Dean was sitting on the bench in Falls Park, watching the children play when he felt a presence beside him and he knew without looking that it was Castiel.

“You here for the congratulation speech?” he asked.

“No.”

Dean turned to him and saw the deep frown etched into the angel’s brow. “What’s up?” He felt strange asking the question. He didn’t much care for the angel. He was a dick.

“Our orders—“

“Yeah, you know, I’ve had about enough of these orders of yours. Your precious orders are what’s keeping my brother trapped in Hell when you have the ability to get him out. You ordered me to get out of town and I refused. You know what, I made the right choice. Rufus saved your damn seal.”

Castiel continued as if he hadn’t heard Dean. “Our orders were not to stop the summoning of Samhain; they were to do whatever you told us to do.”

“Your orders were to follow my orders?”

Castiel nodded. “It was a test, to see how you would perform under... battlefield conditions, you might say.”

“Then what with your buddy Uriel and his whole ‘purify the city’ plan? I thought that’s what you dicks were good at.”

“You misunderstand me, Dean. I’m not like you think. I was praying that you would choose to save the town.”

“You were?”

“These people, they’re all my father’s creations. They’re works of art. Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?”

This ought to be good, Dean thought. “Okay.”

“I’m not a hammer as you say. I have questions. I have doubts. I don’t know what is right and what is wrong anymore, whether you passed or failed here. But in the coming months you will have more decisions to make. I don’t envy the weight that’s on your shoulders, Dean. I truly don’t.”

Dean sighed and leaned back on the bench. “You think that scares me? I’m not scared of what’s to come. I’ve already lived through worse.”

“You are speaking of your brother.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. See, losing Sammy is as bad as it gets for me. I didn’t think I could live through it, but I did. I’ll do what you want, I’ll save your seals, but understand this, I’m not doing it for you. I am doing it because it’s what he would have wanted. God, angels, demons, you can all go to hell as far as I'm concerned. I’m doing this for Sam.”

Castiel stared into Dean’s eyes, and Dean thought, for the first time, that he might finally have got his point across.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

 

Dean was elbow deep in the Impala’s engine when his phone rang. He jolted upright, cracking his head on the open hood.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, connecting the call.

“Dean Winchester, you mind your mouth,” a familiar voice scolded.

“Missouri?”

“Uhuh, it’s me. Who were you expecting?”

That was the thing. Dean didn’t know who to expect. Every time his phone rang, he secretly hoped it would be Sam, that he would have found a way out of the pit and would be trying to find his way home. It was a vain hope, kept secret in Dean’s heart.

“No one,” he said quickly. “So, what can I do for you? The roof leaking again?”

“No, you did a good job fixing it, and Marge Wilkins has stopped pouring paint down her sink so that’s clear too. I was calling for your help.”

Dean straightened. “You okay?”

“I am, but Anna’s not.”

Dean wracked his brain, trying to remember someone called Anna in Lawrence that he’d helped. He couldn’t think of anyone.

“You’re gonna have to help me out here, Missouri. Who’s Anna?”

“A poor afflicted girl. She needs your help.”

“Afflicted with what?” Dean asked. It could be anything, a demon, a ghost or even another poltergeist. In his world, there were too many things that could afflict a person.

“I don’t know,” Missouri said and her voice quavered. “I can hear her calling to me, but I don’t know how to find her.”

“Okay, calm down,” Dean said gently. “I’ll find her. Is there anything else that you can tell me to narrow it down?”

“She’s lost. She’s young—I can tell. She doesn’t see the people she loves. She’s hiding.”

Dean cursed quietly and quickly apologized. “Okay, Missouri. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call you back.”

“Please hurry,” Missouri said in a strained voice. “You aren’t the only one looking.”

They exchanged goodbyes and Dean ended the call. He slammed the hood of the car—the whining noise would have to wait—and made his way into the house. Bobby was working at the stove, preparing a chili for their lunch and he turned as Dean came in. “Did you cure her?”

“What?” Dean stared at him blankly for a moment. He hadn’t even found the girl yet, how was he supposed to have cured her?

“The car,” Bobby said patiently.

“Oh. No, but we’ve got bigger things going on. Missouri called with a job.”

He sat down at the table and booted the laptop up, telling Bobby everything Missouri had told him.

“So it’s a girl called Anna and she’s ‘afflicted’ with who knows what?” Bobby asked and Dean nodded. “How the hell are we supposed to find her?”

“I’ve got an idea,” Dean said. “Missouri said she was young and lost and she can’t see the people she loves. This girl’s either really young or really scared. I’m hoping someone’s missing her.”

He ran a search for missing persons called Anna in the US but got over a million results. Sighing to himself, he thought of ways to narrow it down. Missouri said she could hear her pain, and she’d been able to sense Dean the moment he crossed the state lines. He typed in the search again, adding Kansas to the mix, and got a few thousand results. He skimmed through them all and came across something hopeful linked to the Kansas City Police Department.

“Got something,” he said. “Anna Milton. A patient in the Connor Beverley Behavioral Medicine Center, Kansas City.”

“That sure sounds like she’s afflicted with something,” Bobby said thoughtfully. “But how are we supposed to protect her if she’s in a locked ward?”

“She’s not. She broke out two days ago, taking out an orderly on the way.”

Bobby grimaced. “So we’re looking for a psychotic girl that broke out of a nut house and is now on the run. That sounds nice and easy. Should only take an afternoon.”

“Yeah. You up for this?”

“Someone’s got to watch your ass. What are you thinking?”

“Pull out the suits and go in as feds to the hospital. See what we can find out from them. I need an address to start with.”

Bobby took the pan from the heat and dumped it in the sink. “I was really looking forward to that,” he grumbled.

Dean ignored him. He knew Bobby didn’t really mind. He was up for the case as much as Dean was. They’d not had anything to fight for a week and the angels had been silent. They needed something to distract them.

xXx

The motel they had taken as a base for the night was slightly better than their usual. Bobby had higher standards that Sam and Dean had ever claimed. The walls were a clean white and the carpet was devoid of suspicious stains. If not for the fact he was on a case and there was a young girl in the mix, he would have been happy to kick back and enjoy it for a change.

He heard the rumble of an engine, and he moved to the window and pulled back the gauzy curtain in time to see Bobby’s Chevelle pull up out front beside the Impala. Bobby climbed out and grabbed a manila folder from the passenger seat.

“How’d it go?” Dean asked when Bobby had come in and shrugged off his long coat.

“I had a chat with Anna’s doctor. This is definitely the girl we’re looking for. She had a sketch book filled with revelation signs.”

“Awesome.”

“Don’t get too happy. I haven’t got to the good part yet. Your buddy Missouri said we weren’t the only ones looking for her. I think we can rule out the tooth fairy as a suspect. The windows were coated with sulfur.”

Dean cursed and raked a hand through his hair. “Great. Just what we need. Why would demons be going after a psych ward runaway?”

Bobby shrugged. “Maybe because she knew the end was nigh and she wasn’t keeping the information to herself. She started whacking out a few months ago, talking about the Devil rising. Sounds to me that a girl like that would be worth the demons talking to. I don’t know about them, but I sure as hell want to know where she’s getting her information from.”

“Maybe she’s psychic,” Dean suggested. “Missouri knew all kinds of crap, even about Castiel. She didn’t get that from the six o’clock news.”

“Yeah, well, Missouri’s a hell of a psychic, she’s known throughout the hunting world. If Anna was as powerful as her, we’d have heard about her before now.”

“Not if she’s been keeping the information close. She started whacking out a few months ago, right when the seals started breaking. Something like that might want to make her share with the world.”

Bobby nodded. “You could be right. It sounds like she was an ordinary preacher’s daughter before all this happened. None of that helps us find her of course.”

Dean considered carefully. Anna had been in a psych ward; that had to be some kind of hell. The first thing he’d done when he’d got out of the pit was try to find home—Sam. When that’d failed, he’d gone to the next best thing. This girl was probably thinking the same thing. She would want somewhere familiar.

“You got a home address in the file?” he asked.

“Yeah, the family place is in Tonganoxie.”

“Then let’s check it out. She’ll be looking for something like home. Even if she’s not there, her parents might have a clue about where she’s gone.”

Bobby nodded his agreement and they headed out. Dean followed Bobby in the Chevelle because, to use Bobby’s words, Dean drove like a maniac and he wouldn’t be able to keep up. It was only a thirty-minute drive, even at Bobby’s speeds, and soon they were pulling onto an affluent neighborhood. Dean whistled through his teeth. There was no shortage of money when these houses were built. The one Bobby pulled to a stop in front of was a Victorian gingerbread house with a palatial garden out front. Their cars stuck out like sore thumbs on the street.

Dean climbed out and made his way up the long walkway to the house, Bobby right behind him. He knocked at the door but there was no answer. He looked around and saw two cars in the driveway, so unless they’d gone for a walk, there was something amiss. He tried the handle and it clicked open. He exchanged a dark look with Bobby and they both pulled their guns in unison.

Dean eased open the door and called out. “Mr. and Mrs. Milton. We’re from the sheriff’s department. Just want to ask a few questions.”

There was no response and, as he stepped into the lounge, he saw why. There were two people lying on the floor. Their throats had been cut and a large pool of blood had formed around them.

Bobby squatted and probed a smudge of sulfur. “Demons.”

Dean crossed the room and looked at the row of family snapshots on the mantle. Smiling out of the frames were the two dead people and a young girl with deep red hair and an innocent smile. He held up one of the pictures to Bobby. “Looks like this is our girl.”

Bobby took the frame from his and examined it carefully. “I’ve seen that window before. In her sketchbook at the hospital. She’d drawn that window over and over.”

Realization settled over Dean and he smiled grimly. “If you were religious, scared, and had demons on your ass, where would you go to feel safe?”

“The church.”

They went back out to the street, checking for passersby. The bodies inside would be found sooner or later and they didn’t want anyone seeing them leaving the crime scene. As far as Dean knew, Bobby had a clean record, but he wasn’t so lucky. Though the world believed him dead, he’d had a rap sheet a mile long when Henriksen had been chasing him. There was no one on the streets so they hurried out to their cars and headed out of the street. Dean pulled out his phone and did a swift people search for a Reverend Milton in Tonganoxie. He got the address of the church and called Bobby’s cell to tell him where they were heading.

The church was huge and imposing, a lot like the house had been. Dean wondered if the good reverend had been compensating for something. He saw the stained glass window from the picture and knew they’d got the right place.

When they got inside, they found the nave was empty and dull, the only light coming in through the high, stained glass windows.

“What do you think?” Dean asked.

Bobby gestured to the altar with his gun. “This is too big for her to feel safe. Try that.”

“The altar? You think she’s hiding under the table.”

“No, ya idjit, the door behind tha altar.”

Dean followed Bobby along the aisle to a small door in a recess behind the altar. It led to a spiral staircase and they climbed it coming to a wooden door. They both leaned against the wall either side of the door and Bobby counted to three on his fingers. On three, Dean kicked the door open and entered with his gun raised. The room was large and it looked as though it had been used as a storage space. There were books, statues, and boxes dotted around. If not for the large stained glass window at the back, Dean could have mistaken it for a room at Bobby’s place.

There was a squeak of alarm and Dean caught sight of a figure with red hair disappearing around a screen. “Anna? You don’t need to be scared. We’re going to help you. My name’s Dean and—“

“Dean?” The girl stepped around the screen and looked at Dean with something close to awe. “Not Dean Winchester?”

Dean frowned. “Um… yeah.”

“It's really you. Oh, my god. The angels talk about you. You were in Hell, but the demons pulled you out, and some of the angels think you can help save us. They talk about you all the time lately. I feel like I know you.”

“You talk to angels?” Bobby asked, and she started as if realizing he was there for the first time.

“It’s okay,” Dean said. “This is Bobby. He’s here to help you too.”

She shuffled uncomfortably. “I don’t know you. The angels don’t talk about you.”

Bobby shrugged. “We can’t all be special. Anyhow, you talk to angels?”

She shook her head jerkily. “Oh, no. No, no way. They probably don't even know I exist. I just kind of... overhear them. They talk, and sometimes I just hear them in my head.”

“Like right now?” Dean asked

“Not right this second, but a lot. And I can't shut them out. There are so many of them.”

“So, they lock you up with a case of the crazies when really you were just... tuning in to angel radio?” Dean asked.

Anna sighed with what Dean thought was relief. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Well, at least now we know why the demons want you so bad,” Dean said. “They get a hold of you, they can hear everything the other side's cooking.”

Anna shuddered and hugged her arms around herself.

Suddenly, the room started shaking and a statue toppled over. Anna looked around, terror etched on her features.

“Bobby, get her out of here now!” Dean shouted.

“But you—“

“Now!” Dean shouted. He had the feeling something was coming and they had to get Anna out of there fast.

“Follow me!” Anna said, and they disappeared through a door at the back of the room.

Just then, the door at the top of the spiral staircase burst open and a man entered. He was wearing a pale blue shirt and black jacket. He smiled as he caught sight of Dean and his eyes flashed white, confirming to Dean that he was dealing with a heavyweight demon.

“Hello again, Dean.” His voice was nasal and irritating. He came forward and grabbed Dean’s jacket lapels, shoving him against the wall. Dean stared into his eyes, loathing building inside him.

“Don't you recognize me?” the demon asked. “Oh, I forgot—I'm wearing a pediatrician. But we were so close... in Hell.”

In that moment Dean knew exactly who he was dealing with and just how screwed he was.

“Alastair.”

His hands fisted at his sides. This was the demon that had tortured him for thirty long years, the demon that had freed him from the rack only on the condition that he tortured other souls.

Alastair pulled back his fist and punched Dean across the jaw. He felt his teeth grind against his cheek and blood pooled in his mouth. He drew back, preparing to spit the blood in Alastair’s face, but before he could, Alastair landed another blow, making the blood trickle out of his mouth and down his chin.

“Want me to stop?” Alastair asked as Dean grimaced in pain. “I’ll make you a deal. You give us the girl and I’ll let you go.”

“Never gonna happen,” Dean said through gritted teeth.

Alastair released him and he slid down to the floor.

“This is what I will never understand about you Winchesters,” Alastair said. “You’re so willing to hurt and die for each other but you get squeamish about people you have no connection to. Like Anna…”

“Anna’s an innocent,” Dean said. “We protect them from scum like you.”

Alastair’s eyebrow rose. “You want to talk about innocents? Let’s talk about Sam.”

Dean’s fury rose at his brother’s name coming from the black mouth. He didn’t have the right to speak about Sam.

“Little, innocent Sammy. At least he was. Now he’s twisted and dark and Sam. You really should have done a better job protecting him, Dean. But I can’t complain really. I lost my most promising pupil when I lost you, but I have regained that and more with Sam. He’s a master.”

“I don’t believe you. Sam wouldn’t get off the rack.”

“Oh, but he has, and he didn’t even last as long as you did. Lilith played him too hard, he had to come off. He is now presiding over the souls, ripping and tearing into them. And you know, he enjoys it, too. Just like you did.”

Dean shook his head. “You’re lying.”

Alastair shrugged. “You’ll be able to ask him yourself soon. The way Sam’s going he’ll be sporting a pair of black eyes in no time. He will be out of the pit and then…” He smiled rapaciously. “You’ll have to kill him.”

“That’ll never happen,” Dean said.

“It will,” Alastair said with relish. “And I will be here to watch it happen. I will watch you take that blade,” he kicked Dean in the gut, “and run it through your brother’s gut,” another kick, “and I will enjoy it.”

“Enjoy this!” Dean grabbed Alastair’s ankle and yanked it up, shifting Alastair’s center of balance. He stumbled and Dean was there. He jumped to his feet and dragged Ruby’s knife from his pocket. As Alastair righted himself, Dean plunged the blade into his chest, right over his heart. Sparks of energy crackled around the wound but Alastair didn’t fall to the ground.

He grinned at Dean. “You're gonna have to try a whole lot harder than that, son.”

Dean yanked the blade out and stepped back wordlessly. His mind was reeling. The knife had failed.

“Now, let’s talk a little more about Sam,” Alastair said with relish. “I have so many stories I want to share…”

Dean knew he was dead if he stayed in that room. Alastair would kill him. His eyes crossed the room to the large stained-glass window. It was his only hope. If he could just get to the car, he would have a chance of escape.

Dean ran across the room and threw himself through the window. It smashed on impact and he flew through the air for a split second before gravity caught him and dragged him down.

Dean’s whole body protested at the impact with the ground. He hurt all over, but he didn’t have time to give in to his body’s aches and pains. He had to get away. He clambered to his feet and limped over to the car. Throwing himself in behind the wheel, he started the engine with a shaking hand and the engine roared to life. Tires squealing, he turned out of the parking lot and onto the road. He cast the church a glance in the rearview mirror and saw Alastair standing in the ruined window. It was hard to tell at the distance, but Dean thought he looked satisfied.

He was a mile down the road before the adrenaline wore off and his injuries made themselves known more directly. He felt warmth dripping down his face and every indrawn breath sent pain shooting down his left side. He mopped at the blood with his sleeve and tried to take shallow breaths. He knew from the pains over his body and the dampness on his shirt that he was bleeding in other places too. His head swam and his vision blurred. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to clear them, but that only made things worse. He needed a safe place where he could fix himself up. He needed help and he knew exactly where to go.

He pulled out his phone and dialed Bobby’s number with one hand on the wheel.

“Dean?” Bobby’s voice was thick with worry.

“Bobby, please tell me you got away and I didn’t just pound my ass into concrete for nothing.”

“We got away.” Bobby said. “How did you?”

“That would be part of the concrete pounding I mentioned. Where are you now?”

“We’re about four miles outside of town. How are you doing?” Bobby asked brusquely.

“I’m gonna need some help,” Dean admitted.

“How bad?”

“I won’t make the drive back to your place. I’m going to head to Missouri’s.”

“We’ll meet you there,” Bobby said and promptly ended the call before Dean could argue against.

He dropped the phone down on the seat beside him and directed the car to Lawrence.

When he arrived, he saw Missouri standing on the front porch, wringing her hands. She rushed out to meet him at the car door. It was good that she did as the last of the adrenaline had left him and his legs were shaking.

“Oh, boy, what did you do?” she asked, wrapping an arm around him to steady him as he walked to the door.

“Jumped out of a building,” Dean said through gritted teeth.

She hissed in a breath. “Accursed demons. C’mon, let’s get you inside so I can take a look at you."

He stumbled into the house. When she tried to lead him to the lounge, he balked. He didn’t want to bleed all over her couch.

“You let me worry about the upholstery,” she scolded when he explained. “Besides, you look like you’re about to fall at my feet, and I don’t have near the strength to get you on your feet again.”

“Bobby’s coming,” he said blearily, it was getting harder to think straight. Then through the haze, a thought came. Bobby was coming, but Alastair could be too. “Holy water! He might be coming. You need to protect yourself.”

“I’m plenty protected,” she said. “Don’t you worry.”

She led Dean into the lounge and, despite his protests, eased him down onto the couch. She came back with a small box and examined its contents. “There’s nothing in here that’s going to help you.”

“Don’t worry,” Dean said in a sift sigh. “Bobby will have his kit in the car.”

“Dean, are you…”

Whatever else she was going to say was lost as fog engulfed Dean’s mind and his eyes slipped closed. He thought he heard Bobby’s voice before he succumbed, but he couldn’t be sure.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

 

When Dean’s mind cleared, the first sensation to reach him was pain. His side was burning and he felt hands holding him down. He panicked, sure Alastair had found him and was returning to his pastime of torturing Dean. He struggled but Bobby’s voice cut through his panic. “Easy, Dean. I’m almost done.”

He opened his eyes and saw up to the white of Missouri’s Stucco ceiling. Bobby’s face swam into his vision and his brow was furrowed with concern. “You with me?”

Dean nodded. “How bad is it?”

Bobby shrugged. “A couple broken ribs, a gash in your side the size of Rhode Island and what looks like a helluva concussion. How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve got a couple broken ribs, a concussion and”—he looked down at his side where Bobby’s neat stitches were holding his skin together—“a gash the size of Rhode Island.”

Bobby nodded. “I’ve got some heavy-duty painkillers in my bag. Let me just finish here and I’ll get you some.”

“No!” Dean said quickly. “Thanks, Bobby, but I need my brain in working order right now. Alastair could come back any time.”

“Not in here he can’t,” Missouri said over Bobby’s shoulder. “I’ve got devil’s traps under the mats and an iron line under the boundary. He can stand outside and point if he likes, but he can’t get in.”

“Iron, huh. That’s clever.”

Bobby tied the last stitch and Dean sat up gingerly. As good as Bobby’s field surgery was, he was still battered pretty bad. If Alastair came for him now, he'd be lucky to last five minutes, especially now he knew Ruby’s knife didn’t work.

He looked across the room and saw Anna curled up in an armchair with her knees pulled up to her chest. “You okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “I’m fine. I’m so sorry, though. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“It’s not your fault,” Dean said. “Getting hurt is part of what happens when you tangle with demons.”

Anna started crying quietly, and Missouri perched on the edge of her chair and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “It’s okay, honey. Dean here didn’t mean it was your fault. If the demons hadn’t come after you, there would be another reason for Dean to get bashed up. The boy is a walking tapestry of scars as it is.”

“What happened when we got out of there?” Bobby asked.

Dean told him most of what had happened, omitting the taunts about Sam coming off the rack. To tell those things would mean to tell Bobby exactly what he’d done in Hell and he couldn’t bear to do that.

“But how did you get away?” Bobby asked. “A demon that can’t be killed by the knife has to be a real heavy hitter. Why would he just let you go?”

“He is a heavy hitter,” Dean said darkly. “And as for how I got away, I can only think he wanted it that way. He could have come after me but he didn’t. I think he’s planning on using me to get to Anna.” He looked across the room at the scared girl nestled under Missouri’s arm. “He’s not going to get you Anna.”

Anna smiled slightly and then stiffened. “They’re coming!”

The lights began to flicker. Bobby ran to the front door and bolted it closed.

Dean jumped to his feet, adrenaline coursing through his system again, numbing the pain and making his heart echo in his ears. “Bathroom!”

Missouri grabbed Anna’s arm and dragged her into the hall bathroom. Dean grabbed two shotguns from the Bobby’s duffel on the coffee table. He tossed one to Bobby who caught it one-handed and they both aimed at the door just as it swung open. A wind-like force swept through the room, making Dean’s eyes sting.

“Thought they couldn’t get in!” Dean shouted.

“They can’t!”

But someone could. At that moment Castiel swept into the room closely followed by Uriel.

Dean sighed with relief and lowered his gun. “Please tell me you're here to help. We've been having demon issues all day.”

“We're here for Anna,” Castiel said.

“Here for her like... here for her?”

“Stop talking,” Uriel snapped. “Give her to us.”

Dean frowned. “Are you gonna help her?”

Castiel shook his head slightly. “No, she has to die.”

“You want Anna?” Bobby asked. “Why?”

Uriel stepped forward. “Out of the way.”

Dean raised his gun again. Though he knew it wouldn’t stop Uriel, he felt better having a weapon in his hand. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Okay, I know she's wiretapping your angel chats or whatever, but it's no reason to gank her.

Uriel leered at him. “Don't worry. I'll kill her gentle.“

Dean scowled at him. “You're some heartless sons of bitches, you know that?”

“As a matter of fact, we are. And?”

“And? Anna's an innocent girl,” Bobby said.

“She is far from innocent,” Castiel said.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Give us the girl,” Uriel said impatiently.

He pushed past Dean, shoving him to the side, and headed for the hall. Before he could touch the door’s handle, a bright, white light burst through the room. Dean watched disbelievingly as Uriel and Castiel were literally ripped away. It was as if someone had attached a zip wire to them and yanked it, except, instead of hitting the wall, they just disappeared into the light. The light vanished and they were gone.

“What the hell was that?” Bobby asked breathlessly.

“Anna!” Dean ran into the hall and yanked on the bathroom door. “Missouri, let me in!”

The door clicked open and Dean took a step back at the sight he saw inside. Anna was leaning heavily against the wall with blood covering her left arm and hand. On the mirror, a symbol had been scrawled in blood. It was a circle with smaller sigils painted around.

“Are they… are they gone?” Anna asked breathlessly.

Dean grabbed a towel from the rack and used it to bind Anna’s bleeding arm.

“Did you kill them?” he asked.

“No. I sent them away... far away.”

“You want to tell me how?”

She pointed to the mirror with a shaking hand. “That just popped in my head. I don't know how I did it. I just did it.”

“Well thank God it did,” Missouri said.

Dean pulled back the towel and examined her wound. “Bobby’s gonna need to stitch this.”

They led Anna back into the lounge and sat her on the couch; Bobby pulled over his suture kit and injected something into Anna’s arms around the cut. “Give it a minute and I’ll get to work,” he told Anna. “This’ll numb it.”

“You couldn’t have spared any of that for me?” Dean asked, thinking of the stitches in his side.

“Since when did you get precious?” Bobby asked scornfully. “Anna here just saved us from getting smited by a couple of pissy angels. I say she’s earned a break. What do you think… Missouri? Are you okay?”

Missouri’s eyes were fixed on Anna but they were misted. She looked like she was in a trance of some sort.

“Hey, Missouri?” Dean touched her arm and her head snapped up.

“Anna,” she said softly. “Where did that sigil come from?”

Anna shook her head. “I told you, I don’t know. It just popped into my head.”

“What’s going on?” Dean asked.

Missouri shook her head jerkily. “I’m not sure. I saw something when Anna was working that sigil. Her aura was split. Like she’s two people.”

“I don’t feel like two people,” Anna said in a small voice.

Missouri sat next to her and held her bloody hand. “You may not feel it, but you are. I can’t sense it clearly. I need help.”

Dean frowned. “Help like…?”

“I am not competent at this,” Missouri said as if admitting something shameful. “We need expert help. Let me make a few calls.”

She bustled from the room and Dean and Bobby exchanged a dark look. Dean had the feeling that things were just getting started in the crazy department.

He sat back on the couch, thinking over everything that had just happened. Angels and demons were gunning for Anna and by proxy, him, Bobby and Missouri. The demons wanted to use Anna as a CB radio and the angels apparently wanted her dead. He’d been in some pretty bad situations before, but he didn’t know how he was going to get out of this one. He wished that Sam was there. He was good at thinking around corners. He’d be able to work out a way for them to all get out of this alive.

“Bobby, you still got the records?” Dean asked.

Bobby looked up. “Yeah, they’re in the car.”

Dean got to his feet and, wavering slightly, he went out to the car to collect Anna’s hospital records. What Missouri had said about Anna being two people was playing over in his mind. He trusted Missouri’s ability to read a person, but he didn’t think it was a simple case of schizophrenia happening here. It was something supernatural.

Ten minutes later, he was sitting at the kitchen table with the records open in front of him. As he turned a page, he spotted something that looked hopeful. He read through the page, only looking up when Bobby came into the room.

“Find anything?” he asked

“Yeah, maybe. Where’s Anna?”

“Resting on the couch. What have you found?”

“There is something here in the report. Turns out this latest psych episode wasn't her first. When she was two, she'd get hysterical any time her dad got close. She was convinced that he wasn't her real daddy. She kept repeating that this real father of hers was mad. Very mad, like wanted-to-kill-her mad.

Bobby frowned. “That’s pretty heavy stuff for a two year old.”

“Well, she saw a kid's shrink, got better, and grew up normal.”

“Until now. So, what's she hiding?”

An angry voice spoke from the doorway. “Why don't you just ask me to my face?”

Dean crossed his arms over his chest, unabashed. “Okay. Anna, is there anything you want to tell us?

“About what?”

“The angels said you were guilty of something. Why would they say that?”

“I don't know, I swear. I would give anything to know.”

“We know you would, child,” Missouri said, standing behind Anna. “And were going to find out. I have a friend coming to see you. She can help.”

Dean raked his hands through his hair, brushing the knot on his temple. He hissed in pain and Missouri sighed heavily. “It’s gonna hurt if you keep prodding at it.” She came into the kitchen and set some water to boil. “I’ll make something to help.”

“No offence, Missouri, but I can’t drink any of your stinky tea.” He had seen her sipping that stuff down every morning when he’d been staying here, and he had no desire to try it for himself.

“You can and will,” Bobby said gruffly. “You’re banged up, Dean, so if Missouri has something that will help, you’ll take it.”

“You go into the lounge and make yourself comfortable,” Missouri said sweetly. “And I’ll bring it in.”

Dean got to his feet and made his way into the lounge on unsteady feet. He felt distinctly lightheaded and a little weak. He was regretting his window dive now. He sank down onto the comfortable couch and leaned back, closing his eyes. He was dog-tired and overwhelmed but he couldn’t rest yet. Not while Anna was being hunted.

Missouri came in with a mug of tea a little later and handed it to him. He looked at the contents of the mug and sighed. It was a murky brown with bits of what looked like grass cuttings floating on the top. It smelled pretty foul too.

“Drink it up,” Missouri said. “It’ll help you.”

Dean took a sip and gagged. “It tastes like ass.”

“You’re in pain, so I’ll ignore that,” Missouri said, crossing her arms over her chest. “But if you don’t drain that mug, I’ll take a wooden spoon to your ass.”

Dean plugged his nose and drained the mug. It got worse the more he drank. Picking bits of herb out of his mouth, he set the mug down again. “What the hell was that?”

“Agrimony, cinquefoil, peppermint and Rose, and yerba santa.” she said.

“Cinquefoil?” Bobby asked. “Is that a good idea?”

Missouri nodded serenely. “It’s what he needs.”

Dean felt lethargy wash over him and when he spoke his voice was slurred. “What’s… Missouri, did you dose me with sleeping pills?”

“No, I gave you something to make you heal and sleep.”

“Can’t sleep…” Dean slurred.

“Don’t worry about that now,” Missouri said. “We’re all safe. You just get some rest.”

Dean’s eyes slid closed against his will and he fell into a dream.

He was sitting on the hood of the Impala with a beer in his hand. The car was parked in a field of long grass. The sun was high in the sky. Beating down on Dean’s shoulders. Mist rolled at the edges of his vision, making it hard to see further than twenty feet around him. Though he was alone, he felt he was waiting for someone. As if he had an appointment that he’d forgotten about. He sighed and took a swig of his beer, feeling the cool liquid slipping down his throat, and waited, knowing whoever it was would be there soon.

The first thing that told him he wasn’t alone was the sound of someone parting the long grass that surrounded him. He looked up and saw the man as he strolled out of the mist. He was smiling, with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, as he ambled forward.

Words failed Dean as he took in the man in front of him. He was exactly as he remembered him, though for the first time in a long time, he was smiling widely, as if he was cradling a perfect secret.

“Sammy.” Dean was sure that his voice would come out breathy and shocked, a sign of the overwhelming emotion surging through him, but it was steady and causal, as if he was greeting his brother after a trip to the store rather than the months they had been apart with Sam in Hell.

“Hey Dean.” Sam bent down and took a beer from a cooler Dean hadn’t noticed before and perched on the hood of the car. He brought the beer to his lips and took a deep swig. “How’ve you been?”

Dean opened his mouth to pour forth a hundred apologies and pleas for forgiveness, but all that came out was a nonchalant. “Fine.”

“How about those angels and demons you’ve got on your ass.”

Dean didn’t want to talk about this. He had to know about Sam. He needed to know if Alastair was telling the truth about Sam coming off the rack. There was so much he needed to say to Sam, but instead he found himself telling Sam all about Anna and the threats that were facing them. He cursed internally, fighting against the force stopping him saying what he needed, but it was futile. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t say what he wanted.

Sam looked thoughtful. “Seems to me that you need to get their focus off of you and onto each other. If they were to fight each other…”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Dean asked.

“You’re a smart guy, Dean. You can work it out. Hey, look at that,” he said looking up at the sky. “Have you ever seen so many stars?”

Dean looked up and saw the bright sun had been replaced with a dark sky dotted with stars. He opened his mouth to ask Sam what was happening, where the sun had gone, but all that came out was a casual, “Pretty cool.”

Within his own mind, Dean fought, battling to regain control of his own body.

Sam drained his bottle of beer and dropped the empty into the cooler. “I better go. Someone’s here to talk to you.”

“What? No!” Dean was finally able to say what he wanted, but it was too late. Sam was walking away from him. “Sam! Come back! Please!”

Sam turned back to wave and then he disappeared into the mist.

“So, that was Sam Winchester,” a deep measured voice said.

“Uriel,” Dean spat.

“Good to see you, too, Dean.”

“What do you want?”

“Anna,” Uriel said simply. “I want the betrayer back. To show what a reasonable man I am, I am going to make you a deal. You deliver Anna to me, and I will deliver what you need.”

“I’m not giving her up,” Dean said firmly.

“Really? Not even for your brother?”

Dean’s heart contracted painfully. “You can do that?”

“I am an angel,” Uriel said. “I can do whatever I want.

Dean’s head swam. He couldn’t believe it. He could have Sam back. He could get him away from the flames and knifes and pain of Hell. It was too good to be true.

“You have twenty-four hours,” Uriel said. “You give Anna to us and I will bring your brother to you. Do we have a deal?”

Dean nodded mutely, his mind reeling.

Oh, and Dean, you can tell Anna, she’ll never find it.”

“Find what?”

“She knows.” Uriel reached into his shirt and pulled out a pendant on a chain. The pendant was made of glass and inside there was swirling blue light that Dean could think of no comparison to. It was like nothing he’d ever seen before.”

“What is that?” Dean asked.

“She will know,” Uriel said serenely. “Now. I think it is time for you to wake.”

Uriel pressed two fingers to Dean’s temple and the field and the dark night disappeared to be replaced by Missouri’s lounge.

He eased himself to a sitting position and looked around. Bobby was sitting on an armchair, his chin resting on his hand. “You okay?” he asked.

Dean nodded. “Yeah.”

“Then why are you crying?”

Dean wiped a hand over his face and it came away wet. Tears were leaking slowly from his eyes down his face. He sniffed and cuffed the tears away. He wasn’t sure whether he was crying for Sam or Anna or what was to come. Because while his dream had given him an idea, he knew it was a cursed idea, as it would make him a creature no better than the ones he hunted. He would be playing the part of Judas.

xxx

When morning came around, Anna was sitting on the edge of the couch with her hands clasped in her lap and the others were dotted around the room. No one was talking, each lost in their own thoughts. The silence was broken by a knock at the door. Missouri went to open it and a moment later, Pamela’s voice could be heard.

They came through to the lounge and Dean stepped forward and greeted her. She eyed him carefully and then pulled him into a hug. Dean was taken aback at first, but then he felt her breath against his neck as she whispered in his ear. “I know you’re conflicted, but you’re making the right choice.”

Dean pulled back and nodded covertly, his conscience slightly assuaged. “Pamela, this is Anna,” he said.

Pamela took Anna’s hands in her own and spoke softly. “Hello, Anna.”

“Missouri said you can help me,” Anna said. “What are you going to do?”

Dean straightened. He had been wondering the same thing.

“We’re going to try to unlock some memories,” she said. “See if we can find out why the angels want you.”

“Will it hurt?” Anna asked.

Pamela shook her head. “It’ll be just like going to sleep. First things first.” She rooted through her handbag and pulled out four small hex bags and tossed them to each of them.

“What’s this?” Anna asked.

“Hex bags,” Dean said.

Pamela grinned. “Extra-crunchy. They'll hide you from angels, demons, all comers.”

“How did you learn to do this?” Bobby asked.

“I’ve been reading up on angels since your boy here first encountered them. There’s tons of lore out there if you’re looking, and what’s not written down is out there in the Ouija world. I’ve been busy.”

“Sounds like,” Bobby said.

Pamela smiled and then looked down at Anna. “Okay. I’m going to need you to lie down. The rest of you, get comfy and stay quiet. Anna and I need a little peace.”

Ten minutes later Anna was lying on the couch and Pamela was counting down from ten in her attempt to hypnotize Anna. Dean was skeptical, he didn’t believe in people being forced to act like a chicken on the buzzword, but he was out of ideas, so he was staying quiet and letting Pamela do her thing.

“Can you hear me?” Pamela asked.

“I can hear you,” Anna said. Her voice was different, softer and quiet, as if she was only half-awake.

“Now, Anna, tell me... How can you hear the angels? How did you work that spell?”

“I don't know. I just did.”

“Your father... What's his name?”

Anna answered promptly. “Rich Milton.

“All right. But I want you to look further back... When you were very young... Just a couple of years old.”

“I don't want to.”

“It'll be okay. Anna, just one look—that's all we need.”

Anna moaned. “No.”

“What's your dad's name? Your real dad. Why is he angry at you?”

“No! No! No!” She screamed and the sound pierced through Dean. “No! He's gonna kill me!”

“Anna, you're safe.” Pamela said gently.

Anna screamed again and the light bulb above them exploded, dropping thin shards of glass to the floor.

“It's all right, Anna.” There was a trace of panic in Pamela’s voice now, as if things weren’t going remotely to plan.

Feeling that the situation was slipping out of control, Dean stepped forward. “Anna?”

“Dean, don’t!” Pamela shouted.

Anna’s hand struck out and the blow knocked him across the room. He landed heavily against the opposite wall, his previous injuries all protesting at the impact. Bobby helped Dean to his feet, mumbling about damn fool ideas and broken ribs.

Pamela leaned forward. “Wake in one, two, three, four, five. Anna... Anna? You all right?”

Anna sat up slowly and when she spoke, her voice was calm and confident. She even held herself differently now, a stark contrast to the scared girl she had been before. “Thank you, Pamela. That helps a lot. I remember now.”

“Remember what?” Bobby asked.

“Who I am.”

Dean nodded. “I'll bite. Who are you?”

Anna looked at him and he shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. “I'm an angel.”

Everyone in the room took an involuntary step back

“Don't be afraid,” Anna said serenely. “I'm not like the others.” She got to her feet and paced the length of the room. “So...Castiel, Uriel—they're the ones that came for me?”

“You know them?” Bobby asked.

“We were kind of in the same foxhole.”

“So, what, were they like your bosses or something?” Pamela asked.

“Try the other way around.”

“But now they want to kill you?” Missouri said.

“Orders are orders. I'm sure I have a death sentence on my head. I disobeyed, which, for us, is about the worst thing you can do. I fell.”

Dean frowned. “Meaning?”

Pamela looked at Anna with awe. “She fell to earth, became human.”

Dean stepped forward. “Wait a minute. I don't understand. So, angels can just become human?”

Anna smiled ruefully. “It kind of hurts. Try cutting your kidney out with a butter knife. That kind of hurt. I ripped out my grace. And now Heaven wants me dead.”

“And Hell just wants her,” Bobby said. “A flesh-and-blood angel that you can question, torture, that bleeds.“

“And that's why I'm gonna get it back,” Anna said.

“What?”

“My grace.”

Dean raised a reluctant hand. “Uh, I can see a problem with that.”

“Oh yeah, and what’s that?” Bobby asked.

“Your grace, it’s a glowy blue thing, right?”

Anna nodded. “You’ve seen it?”

“Yeah, around Uriel’s neck. He kinda came to me in a dream last night…”

Bobby rounded on Missouri. “Cinquefoil! I knew it was a bad idea.”

Missouri waved him to silence. “Hush. Dean, what did he say?”

Dean looked determinedly at the opposite wall, not meeting her eye. “He basically came to taunt me a bit. He said Anna would never get it back and showed me this necklace thing. I didn’t understand what it meant then, but now…”

“Now we’re screwed,” Bobby finished for him. “Balls!”

“Is there no other way?” Pamela asked. “Can’t we... I don’t know… summon your grace somehow.”

Anna shook her head sadly. “There’s nothing. Without my grace, I am powerless.”

Dean cursed fluidly and marched out of the room. He walked into the backyard and leaned against the porch railing, deep in thought. After a long time of thought, he did something he had never done in his life, he began to pray.

xxx

“Are you sure about this?” Bobby asked leaning over the top of the Chevelle.

Dean nodded. “It’s the last place they’ll think to look for us. It’s still prepped from when we summoned Castiel. We’re better off there than anywhere else.”

Bobby sighed. “I guess it makes sense. I’d still feel happier if we were in the panic room.”

Dean shook his head. “The demons know all about your place. Just trust me, Bobby. I know what I’m doing.”

Bobby nodded and climbed into his car. “I’ll see you there.”

On the porch, Missouri and Pamela were saying goodbye to Anna. Dean felt guilt twist his guts as he watched them. They didn’t know what kind of monster he really was. They didn’t know what he’d done or what he was about to do.

Anna came down the steps and opened the Impala’s door. “Off on another adventure, right?”

Dean smiled grimly. “Something like that.”

The drive to the warehouse took a few hours, and though Anna tried to make conversation, they spent most of it in silence. Dean didn’t know what Anna was thinking, but he was thinking of Sam and what he would think if he knew what Dean was planning to do.

It was with a sigh of relief at the fact it was nearly over that Dean pulled over at the side of the warehouse and climbed out of the car. Anna took his hand as they walked into the warehouse and Dean shuddered internally at the contact. She shouldn’t be touching him; he was the betrayer.

He heaved open the door of the warehouse and Anna walked in first, looking around the cavernous space. She looked up at the broken roof. “Did Castiel do that?”

Dean nodded and rooted through his pockets. “Yeah.”

“He always liked to make an entrance,” she said with amusement.

“Anna, give me your hex bag for a moment,” he said.

She handed it over wordlessly and he set it down beside his on the table where he and Bobby had worked their summoning ritual.

He heard Bobby’s Chevelle pulling up outside and he knew he had to work fast. With a swift tug, the string holding Anna’s hex bag closed broke and the contents spilled out. He did the same with his own.

“What are you doing?” Bobby asked, coming to an abrupt halt in the doorway. “We need them.”

“Not anymore,” Dean said then he lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

The roof began to quake and Dean knew they were coming. Through the door stepped Castiel and Uriel, both looking inordinately satisfied.

“Hello, Anna. It's good to see you.” Castiel said.

Bobby looked from the angel’s to Dean and he looked stunned. “Why?”

“Because he made a deal,” Anna said. “Dean lets them kill me and Sam will be raised. I know how their minds work.

“Sam… Back… What?” Bobby said breathlessly.

Anna turned to Dean and kissed his cheek. “You did the best you could. I forgive you.” She turned away from Dean and faced Castiel and Uriel. “Okay. No more tricks. No more running. I'm ready.”

“I'm sorry.” Despite his words, there was no trace of sincerity in Castiel’s tone.

Anna shook her head. “No. You're not. Not really. You don't know the feeling.”

“Still, we have a history. It's just—“

“Orders are orders,” Anna said. “I know. Just make it quick.”

Dean was starting to panic. Things weren’t going to plan. Destroying the hex bags should have worked. Just then, the door at the other end of the warehouse opened and Alastair and two demons appeared. Dean breathed a sigh of relief.

“Don't you touch a hair on that poor girl's head,” Alastair said in his horrible nasal voice that set Dean’s teeth on edge.

Dean grabbed Anna’s arm and dragged her to the side of the room, giving the angels and demons space to duke it out.

Uriel stiffened. “How dare you come in this room, you pussing sore?”

“Name calling,” Alastair said. “That hurt my feelings, you sanctimonious, fanatical prick.”

“Turn around and walk away now,” Castiel said solemnly.

“Sure. Just give us the girl. We'll make sure she gets punished good and proper.”

Castiel stepped forward. “You know who we are and what we will do. I won't say it again. Leave now or we lay you to waste.”

Alastair smiled. “Think I'll take my chances.”

There was a moment of silence as the angels and demons faced off, and then they sprang into action. Uriel charged forward and grabbed one of the demons. He pressed a hand to its forehead and bright light spilled forth. The demon dropped to the floor.

Dean shoved Anna behind him and Bobby came to stand at his side. They formed a line of defense.

Castiel pressed his hand to Alastair’s forehead, and Dean watched, exultant, but nothing happened.

“Sorry, kiddo,” Alastair said. “Why don't you go run to daddy?”

Alastair gripped Castiel’s throat and forced him to the ground. He started chanting in a language Dean didn’t understand. Dean didn’t know what he was doing, but he knew it couldn’t be good. Leaving Bobby to defend Anna, he picked up an iron bar from the table and swung it though the air. It collided with Alastair’s head, and he turned on Dean. “Dean, Dean, Dean. I am so disappointed. You had such promise.”

Alastair shoved Dean away and he landed heavily on the floor.

Uriel grabbed the second demon and prepared to exorcise it, but as his hand came up, Anna stepped around Bobby and yanked the cord around Uriel’s neck. She dropped the pendant on the ground and it smashed, releasing the light.

“No!” Uriel howled.

Dean was fixated on what was happening around him. Bright light was spilling from the pendant and rising to pour into Anna. She dropped to her knees on the floor and shouted. “Shut your eyes! Shut your eyes! Shut your eyes!”

Dean did and when he reopened his eyes, Anna, Alastair, Castiel, Uriel and the demons bodies were gone.

Bobby looked at Dean. “What the hell just happened?”

Dean raked a hand through his hair. “Buy me a beer and I’ll tell you all about it.”

xxx

They made it to Ellen’s and she took one look at them and led them into the kitchen. She returned a minute later with two beers and a demand for an explanation for what had happened as soon as the bar was closed.

When she was gone, Bobby locked eyes with Dean and crossed his arms over his chest. “What happened, Dean?”

Dean sighed heavily. “We just survived against the odds, that’s what happened.”

“I’m gonna need a little more than that.”

Dean told him about dreaming of Sam and the idea Sam had given him, to make the angels and demons fight it out between themselves. He told him about Uriel’s offer and how tempted he had been.

“So, is Sam coming back?” Bobby asked hopefully.

Dean shook his head. “No. I played Uriel, making him go up against Alastair like that, and I almost got Castiel killed or whatever it was Alastair was doing to him. Even if I hadn’t, if I’d handed Anna over, Sam wouldn’t be coming back. Castiel said they needed orders from God to bring him back, and a whole host of angels. There’s no way Uriel had the juice for that.”

“You must have been tempted. Hell, I know I would have been.”

Dean stared at the door that hid his brother’s grave from view. “You have no idea, Bobby. I want him back so bad, sometimes it all I can think about, but Sammy wouldn’t want to come back at the cost of someone else’s life. I learned that the hard way.”

Bobby cleared his throat gruffly and when Dean looked up he saw Bobby was a little wet around the eyes but he was looking intently at Dean, and Dean knew what he was thinking about.

“I know you heard him,” Dean said heavily.

Bobby blinked innocently. “Who?”

“Alastair. What he said... about how I had promise.”

Bobby nodded soberly. “I heard him.”

“You're not curious?”

“Dean, I'm damn curious. But I'm not pushing.”

Dean took a swig of his beer. “It wasn't four months, you know.”

“What?”

“It was four months up here, but down there... I don't know. Time's different. It was more like forty years.”

“My God,” Bobby said in a breathy voice.

“They sliced and carved and tore at me in ways that you...” He shook his head. “Until there was nothing left. And then, suddenly, I would be whole again, like magic. Just so they could start in all over. And Alastair, at the end of every day, every one, he would come over. And he would make me an offer. To take me off the rack if I put souls on... if I started the torturing. And every day, I told him to stick it where the sun shines. For thirty years, I told him. But then I couldn't do it anymore, Bobby. I couldn't. And I got off that rack. God help me, I got right off it, and I started ripping them apart.” He blinked and a tear rolled down his cheek. “The things that I did to them.”

Bobby reached out and gripped his arm. “Dean... Dean, look, you held out for thirty years. That's longer than anyone would have.“

The tears began to spill down his cheeks in earnest. “That’s what I’m afraid of. Alastair said… He told me Sam’s broke, too. They said he’s over the rack now, and God forgive me, but I’m scared he’s lying. I want Sam to break; I want him off the rack. I can’t bear the thought that he’s there hurting still.”

He heard Bobby’s indrawn breath and he looked up. Bobby’s face was creased with pain and something not instantly identifiable. It took Dean a moment to recognize it as guilt. “Me too, boy,” he said in a throaty voice. “Me too.”


	15. Chapter 15

**_Chapter Fifteen_ **

 

The sky was dark and strewn with shining stars, and at the edges of the meadow, white mist rolled. Dean was sitting on the hood of the Impala, a beer in his hand, waiting. He had been waiting for a month now, spending every night in the meadow, but he never gave up hope that this would be the night he came.

A figure stepped out of the mist and Dean’s heart leapt. He was here. At last he had come. He scooted off the hood, standing ready to greet his brother, but it wasn’t Sam that stepped out of the mist. It was a woman. As she came closer, Dean recognized her.

“Anna?”

She sauntered towards him, her long hair swinging behind her. When she came to a stop she smiled at him sympathetically.

“What are you doing here?” Dean asked.

“He’s not coming, Dean,” she said softly, that small, sympathetic smile still on her lips.

Dean’s heart sank but he brazened it out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You do. Sam won’t come again.”

“How do you know?” Dean asked and he was mortified to find that his voice came out small and uncertain.

“Because you don’t need him now.”

Dean bristled with indignation. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He always needed Sam. That was the problem.

She sighed and pushed her hair back from her face. “You don’t need him in the same way. The circumstances last time were singular.”

“You mean the funky tea Missouri gave me?” An inkling of hope occurred to him. If he needed the ass-tasting tea to make Sam appear, he’d chug it by the gallon.

“The tea was only a part of it. You needed to be able to think clearly at the time, you were too distracted by saving me. The cinquefoil opened your mind, creating the scenario to allow you to think around the corners so to speak. It wasn’t really Sam here. It was your own mind delivering your heart’s desire."

Dean’s heart sank. He’d known it wasn’t really Sam, Sam was dead and buried, but those minutes of conversation were more than he thought he’d ever get. It was the hope for more that had sustained him through the last month of loneliness. He felt like he was losing Sam all over again.

“I’m sorry,” Anna said.

Dean shook his head and wiped at his eyes. When his hand came away dry he realized it was only inside that he was breaking. The pretence of calm had remained. “What are you doing here anyway?” he asked. “And how are you here? How come you and Uriel can stroll through my dreams?”

“It is the ability of an angel to transport oneself into human dreams. And as for the why, I came to help you. I couldn’t bear to watch you wasting your life waiting for something that will likely never happen. It was distracting you from your purpose.”

Dean sighed heavily. He didn’t want to hear about his purpose again. He had committed to the fight, he was doing his best, but that didn’t seem to count for anything anymore.

“Why aren’t you fighting Lilith?” Anna asked.

Dean scoffed. “I don’t know, maybe because I don’t have a weapon that will kill her. She’s not exactly sweating the knife. I stabbed Alastair in the heart with it, and he kept on coming.”

“But the seals are breaking. Why aren’t you stopping that?”

Dean threw his arms up. “How? I don’t even know what the seals are. I haven’t seen Castiel since you got your mojo back, and he’s supposed to be my Yoda.”

Anna frowned. “You haven’t seen Castiel?”

“No, not for a month. I’d be happy to help with the seals, but since I don’t know what they are…”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand. What are they doing?”

“How should I know?”

She disregarded his question completely. “I have to go. I need to know what’s happening.”

She didn’t walk back into the mist; she just disappeared into thin air.

“Thanks for the help,” Dean shouted after her.

He looked around the clearing. What had been a place of hope and peace for him was now the scene of bitter disappointment.

Sam wasn’t coming.

xXx

His cell phone’s rendition of _Smoke on the Water_ woke Dean and he fumbled on the nightstand with his eyes still closed to find it. His fingers wrapped around the small plastic case and he brought it to his ear. “’Lo”

“You still sleeping?” Bobby asked.

Dean rolled over and swung his legs round to sit on the edge of the bed. “What’s the time?” he asked drowsily.

“Buy yourself a watch.”

Dean looked down at his wrist and saw that it was a little after noon. He’d slept for twelve hours straight. For someone that usually managed on four hours that was an impressive nap. He yawned widely and rubbed at his bleary eyes.

“Sorry, Bobby. I guess I had a late night.”

“Working or drinking?” Bobby asked acerbically.

“Okay, who pissed in your cornflakes?”

“Rufus,” he said gruffly.

“What’s up with you two?”

“Never you mind. Now, do you want to hear about this case or not?”

“What case?”

“The case I called to tell you about, ya idjit.”

“Go ahead.”

“There’s been a spate of bad weather in Colorado.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Snow?” he asked sarcastically.

He heard Bobby draw a heavy breath. “Thundersnow, actually, all over this one town, Buena Vista. Me and Rufus have been tracking the signs and we think there’s demons set up shop there.”

“Okay, I’ll take care of it.”

“You want company?” Bobby asked.

“Nah, I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.”

Before Dean could ask anything else or even say goodbye, Bobby had ended the call.

“Grumpy old bastard,” he mumbled, setting the phone down on the nightstand.  

He got to his feet and padded across the room into the bathroom. After setting the shower to running, he stared into the mirror. There were dried tear tracks on his cheeks. He remembered thinking it was strange that he wasn’t crying in his dream, when he felt like he was being torn in two, but it seemed his body had been able to find the release. He stepped under the spray of hot water and raised his head so it flowed over his face, washing away the signs of his sadness.

Twenty minutes later, he was dressed comfortably and loading his duffel into the car. He had spent the night in a mom and pop motel in Bear River City, Utah. Despite the impressive name, it was more of a village than a city, and Dean hadn’t seen a single bear. He’d been there for a possible vampire nest which turned out to be a bunch of hippies living in a barn. Dean wasn’t sad to say goodbye to the town.

It was an eight-hour drive to Colorado and he made in it one long trek, only stopping to grab coffee from a roadside stand. As he made the climb towards the town, the roads got a little more icy, and he had to drive at speeds that usually would have embarrassed him.

There was an abundance of sporting goods stores on the main street, and Dean guessed the town survived on the summer tourist trade. He came to a motel erroneously named as _Elk Cabins._ There wasn’t a cabin in sight in the small parking lot. It looked like a hundred other motels Dean had spent his life in: peeling paint on the clapboards and a flashing neon sign announcing vacancies. Dean booked himself into a room, overlooking the manager’s extreme halitosis and bare beer gut in favor of the discount prices.

When he let himself into his room, the cabins part of the motel’s name made sense. The walls were paneled with fake logs and the bedspread was a forest green. There was even a stuffed elk on the wall. Dean looked into its glassy eyes and tried to decide whether it was real or not. Deciding he didn’t care, he dropped his bag down onto the bed and pulled the laptop out of the bag. The motel’s one saving grace was the internet access. He sat on the edge of the bed with the laptop perched on the bedside table and logged onto the news pages for the local area. There was nothing in them to give him a clue what demons would be doing in the area, and he snapped it shut after only a few minutes searching.

Already tired of the motel’s faux mountain interior, he grabbed his jacket and headed out. He remembered seeing a sign for a diner on the way into town, and he made his way there on foot. It seemed the mountain interior was a theme in the town as the diner’s exterior was also logs. Dean ran a hand over one as he came to the door and found it was genuine wood rather than the plastic of his room.

The diner was almost empty, despite the hour. There was a young couple sitting in a booth making goo-goo eyes at each other and ignoring the plates of food in front of them and a man that had to be in his late seventies sitting at the counter. Dean took a seat in a booth and waited for someone to serve him.

“Hey, Ellie, how’s about some service for our visitor!” the man at the counter bellowed.

Dean looked up as a swing door opened and a woman stepped out. She was maybe thirty and she had long dark hair. Her uniform consisted of a black apron over a green blouse and black slacks. “I hear ya, Hank. No need to shout,” she said loudly. She came to Dean’s booth and smiled sweetly at him. “What can I get ya?”

Dean ordered without consulting the menu. They would have what he wanted, places like this always did. “Bacon cheeseburger and coffee, please.”

“Sure thing.” She jotted down his order and disappeared through the swing door again.

Dean played with the sugar packets while he waited for his order, then he realized what he was doing, acting like a teen girl on her first date, and laid his palms down flat on the table. He was running over ideas for finding the demon in his mind when his food arrived. He ate mechanically, taking sustenance, not pleasure from the food.

“You’re a brave man,” the man at the counter, Hank, said.

Dean looked up, realizing the man was talking to him. “What’s that?”

“Ignore him,” Ellie said from her place behind the counter. “Hank’s just flapping his gums.”

“I am not,” Hank said indignantly. “I’m warning the man. He should know what he’s doing eating here.”

“You’re eating here,” Dean said pointedly.

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. I’m sticking with the coffee. Even Ellie can’t poison me with that.”

“Thank you, Hank,” Ellie said bitterly. “I’ll remember that.”

“What’s wrong with the food?” Dean asked, looking at his empty plate.

“There is _nothing_ wrong with our food,” Ellie said, sighing. “Hank’s just jumping at shadows because of the deaths.”

Dean’s attention was piqued. “Deaths?”

“It’s a tragedy really,” Ellie said and her tone had taken on a serious edge. “The Petersons and the Fletchers. They’re two local couples that died last week.”

“After eating here,” Hank said.

Ellie rounded on him. “As did sixty other people and none of them have died.” She turned to Dean. “The congregation of Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows come here every Sunday after Mass. This place is their unofficial meeting place. Last Sunday they came and on Wednesday the bodies of the Petersons and Fletchers were found in their homes.”

“What killed them?”

“Morbid much?”

Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He sorted through the various fake IDs he had on offer and pulled out a good facsimile of a federal agent business card with the name D. DeYoung on it. He handed it over and eyed it carefully. Unexpectedly, she smiled. “Renegade, huh?”

Dean feigned confusion. “Huh?”

“Dennis DeYoung. Styx.” She smiled apologetically. “Thought you’d hear that all the time.”

“Oh, actually the D stand for Dean.”

“So are you here on a case?” Hank asked.

“Actually, I am taking some downtime,” Dean lied. “I heard the town was nice, so I thought I’d take a break here.”

“You think the deaths are a fed case?” Hank asked with interest.

“I don’t think so,” Dean said hurriedly. “Though I can’t rule it out. I’ll call my field office and see if they want me to pursue anything.” He dropped a couple of bills down on the table and got to his feet.

He made for the door, passing the couple that had remained oblivious to their entire conversation—too distracted by each other. As he swung open the door, the sounds of _Blue Collar Man_ began playing on the jukebox. He turned to Ellie who was standing at the box and smiled. “Real cute.”

She grinned. “Hope to see you again.”

Don’t think so, Dean thought as he let the door close behind him.

When he got back to the motel, he put a call in to Bobby. His mood didn’t seem to have improved since the last time they’d spoken, and Dean kept the call brief. They both agreed that the deaths of the locals were a shaky excuse for a fed scam, but as he’d already introduced himself as such, there wasn’t much they could do about it. Bobby promised to see what he could glean from the coroner’s files through some injudicial research. But unless Bobby came up with something good, Dean was going to have to do the whole case undercover—breaking into police files and the coroner’s office.

Before Dean went to bed, he rooted through the Impala’s trunk and found the sprig of rosemary and the adder stone Missouri had given him. He’d foregone using them for weeks in hopes of seeing Sam again, but having Anna’s assurance that it wasn’t going to happen, he set them on the bedside table and climbed under the covers. If he wasn’t going to see Sam, there was nothing to be gained from dreaming.

xXx

Dean was woken the next morning by his phone ringing once again. He cleared his throat to wipe away the signs of sleep from his voice before answering.

“Bobby, tell me you got something good.”

“Depends on your version of good. I found an excuse for you to poke around as a fed.”

“Awesome. What’s the deal?”

“The coroner put in a call to the CDC. He found something in the bodies that’s got him jumpy. Want me to call in as Willis and warn them you’re coming?”

“No, I’ll surprise them. Anything on the local yokel cops?”

“Low crime rate in town so they’re either good or lucky. The man you’re looking for is Sheriff Morgan.”

“Right. I’ve got it. I’ll let you know how I get on.”

“You be careful out there, Dean. If there are demons on the loose, they’re not killing in the ordinary way.”

“You know it,” Dean said. They exchanged goodbyes and Dean ended the call. Sighing to himself, he dressed in the fed suit and opened up the laptop to check the coroner’s location and police department. He figured it wouldn’t be hard to find them in a town this small, but he didn’t want to drive around asking for directions. That wouldn’t help his image as a federal agent. He jotted down the addresses and stuffed his wallet and ID into a pocket.

The town was small, and it only took him a few minutes to get to the coroner’s office. It was more a shed than a building. Dean tested the door and found it locked. He rapped on the glass but no one came. He was about to turn around and try the cop station when a man appeared through the glass. He unbolted the door. He was overweight and the journey to the door seemed to have worn him out as he was puffing he spoke. “Sorry about the wait. I was elbow deep in an intestine when I heard you. What can I do for you, Mister…?”

“Agent DeYoung,” Dean said, holding up his fed badge. “I am here about the Peterson and Fletcher deaths.”

“Walter Roberts,” the man said holding out a bloody gloved hand.  

Dean stuffed his hands in his pockets.

The man looked down and seemed to realize what he was offering as a handshake. He pulled off the glove and stuffed it into his pocket. He smiled apologetically. “I wasn’t expecting anyone from the government yet, or at all to be honest. I only placed to call to the CDC to cover my bases and their response is usually an email a few weeks after burial.”

“What can I say? Things are changing with the new administration. You mind if I come in?”

Walter stepped back and gestured him in. He led Dean into a large white room with harsh white walls and a bank of steels doors against one wall. To complete the picture there was a body laid out on a table with the V-shaped incision laying his chest and guts bare.

“This here’s Mr. Peterson. He’s the last to be examined.”

“And what killed him?” Dean asked.

“That’s where things get a little weird. Before the blood work came back I would have sworn it was some kind of mutated stomach virus. All the bodies showed signs of dehydration consistent with stomach flu.”

“But now?”

“Now, I know the truth. It’s poisoning. Look here.” He pointed to a rope of intestine. “Hemorrhagic lesions. I’ve looked around and there is clear evidence of cell death.”

“So they were poisoned? With what?”

He nodded. “Best guess, Ricin. Nasty stuff. It’s a damn shame. I knew these people. They were members of our church. Good people.”

“You don’t think the poisoning was intentional then?” Dean asked. “Suicides?”

“No way. I saw them before they died, at our church lunch. They were happy. Looking forward to the outing.”

“And there’s no way this was an accident?”

“You want my opinion, Agent?” the man said darkly. “I’d say these people were murdered.”


	16. Chapter 16

Dean had a lot to think about as he drove over to the police department. He knew he could be tracking a human murderer, but the chances of a human murderer working the town at the same time as demons were pretty slim, especially in a town this small. In a city, he would believe it. He knew nothing about Ricin but he figured the internet would solve that problem for him. He wanted to see the police chief before he got to work on that though.

He drove through the quiet streets, one foot hovering over the brakes as he navigated the icy roads. If the threatening snow made an appearance, he was going to be in a mess. The Impala had many positive attributes, but her maneuverability in snow wasn’t one of them.

The police department was a redbrick building with wide windows. Slatted blinds blocked Dean’s view of the inside as he pulled up beside a police cruiser. He climbed out of the car, cursing the cold again. A bell tinkled over the police station door as he pushed it open, making him think of fussy little ladies’ stores. He imagined being brought here as a criminal and hearing the little tinkle. It wouldn’t exactly put fear into the heart of him.

There was a dark wood counter with a deputy sitting behind it, attention devoted to an open manila folder in front of him. Dean cleared his throat to get his attention but he held up a hand.

“Agent DeYoung here to see the Sheriff,” Dean said loudly, holding up his badge.

The deputy looked up and glared at Dean. “Wait here.”

Musing on the lack of hospitality, Dean leaned an elbow on the counter and stared around the room. It was untidy but not desperately so. A clearly labeled door led to the holding cells and another to the bathrooms. There was a rank of filing cabinets behind the counter and a coffee machine on a far table filled with what looked like thick sludge. Dean made a mental note to refuse coffee if it was offered.

A door at the far end of the room opened and the deputy stepped out. “The sheriff will see you now.”

Dean walked around the counter and to the door. “Thank you for your help,” he said sardonically and pushed past the deputy into the sheriff’s office.

The man standing behind the desk looked like he was fast approaching retirement if he hadn’t passed it already; his hair was a uniform grey and sparse. He was on the phone as Dean entered and he held up a hand as if to silence him, though Dean hadn’t said a word.

“Okay, Walt. He’s here now.” There was a pause. “Yeah, I’ll deal with it.” He ended the call and scowled at Dean. “Agent DeYoung. I have been waiting for you to come.”

Dean forced a smile. “And here I am.”

The sheriff hitched up his trousers. “But what are you doing here? I haven’t put in a call to the feds for assistance.”

“I was in the area when I heard about the deaths. I reported to my field office and they gave me the go-ahead to look a little deeper.”

The sheriff grunted and sat down. Despite the fact he hadn’t been invited to, Dean took a seat opposite the desk. “What can you tell me about the deceased?”

“I can tell you they were troubled souls. They took their own lives.”

“That’s not what the coroner said.”

“Walt,” the sheriff said as if that explained everything. “He watches too much TV. That CSI.”

Dean knew he wasn’t going to be getting any helpful information from the sheriff as an FBI agent so he leaned back in his seat and tried for a commiserating expression. “I’ll be honest, Sheriff. I didn’t ask for this assignment. I am duty bound to call in when I hear of a suspicious death. My office thinks there’s something happening here and I have to investigate.” He raised his hands in a ‘what can you do’ gesture. “I’d much rather be enjoying my downtime in your fine town.”

The sheriff seemed to swell. “It is a fine town, a damn fine town. We’ve got one of the lowest crime rates in the state thanks to me and my team.”

“I heard about that.” Dean said smoothly. “These suicides must be an inconvenience.”

“Darn right.”

“How do you think they got the poison?”

“Internet,” the sheriff said. “Seems to me you can get anything off the internet these days. They must have made some kind of pact. They’re damned now.”

Dean frowned. “Damned?”

The sheriff rubbed a hand over his jaw. “They were good Catholics before this happened. I took mass with them every week. What they did was a sin.”

“I thought the church had progressed past that,” Dean said.

“Sure, they’ll still get their Catholic burial and the likes, but they’re damned nonetheless. Rome has gotten too easy on them, I think. Used to be that a murderer couldn’t be buried…”

Dean could tell the man was building up a good head of steam so he tuned him out and concentrated on the facts. Despite what the sheriff said, Dean didn’t believe it was suicide. He trusted the coroner’s instincts and his own more than this backwoods hick. The question was who did the poisoning. He had one line of investigation open to him, the people themselves. He couldn’t exactly call Pamela up and ask her to ask the victims themselves, not yet at least, so he had to go to the next port of call: the church. The victims had all been Catholics at the local church. He needed to speak to their priest.

“…that’s my opinion,” the sheriff finished.

Dean got to his feet. “I quite agree with you, sheriff. I need to do a little more work to appease the boss, and then I’ll leave you people in peace.”

The sheriff got to his feet and gave Dean’s hand a quick shake. “You do that, Agent. You’ll find Our Lady at the corner of town. Across from the KwikMart.” Dean frowned. He hadn’t mentioned the church to the sheriff. “Seems to me if someone’s considering the ultimate sin they’d go to one particular person to talk about it. You’ll like Father Douglas. He’s a good man.”

Dean said his goodbyes and made his way out of the station. As the door closed behind him, he heard the sheriff begin to berate the deputy for not respecting agents of the law. Smiling to himself, he thought that it was a quick turnaround. It just went to show what a little ass kissing could achieve.

xXx

Like Anna’s father’s church, Our Lady was an imposing building. It was redbrick with a white façade held up with thick white columns. It seemed incongruous against the rest of the small town’s buildings.

Dean pulled up front and climbed out of the car. He went to the wooden door but before he could knock, it swung open, revealing a man wearing a white shirt and light jeans. “Agent DeYoung I presume.”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean said. “How did you know?”

“Our town is small and news travels fast. I heard you drove an Impala and when I heard that distinctive rumble, I knew it had to be you. I'm father Douglas.”

“You don’t look like a priest,” Dean said before he could stop himself.

“You caught me having a little downtime,” he said. “Come on in.”

They entered a cavernous room with a high, vaulted ceiling. A red-carpeted aisle split the room between rows of pews. Dean followed the priest down the aisle and into a smaller room with a table and chairs in the center of the room and a coffee machine gurgling on a counter. It looked a lot more appetizing than the sludge at the cop station.

“Would you like some coffee?” the priest asked.

Dean nodded. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Please sit down.”

Dean sat at the table and rested his palms on his knees while the priest bustled at the counter for a moment, taking a chance to look around the room. There was a bookshelf against the wall and it was stacked with heavy bound books. One stood out, as it had no title, just the name _Anton LaVey_. Dean recognized the name, but before he could follow the thought, the priest turned. “Do you take milk and sugar?” Dean shook his head and the priest smiled. “I thought not. You looked like a take it black man.” He set the coffee down in front of Dean and took a seat opposite. “How can I be of help to you?”

Dean leaned back in his seat. “I’d like to know about Fletchers and Petersons. Anything you can tell me about them.”

“They were good Catholics. They came to Mass every week and took communion. They were active in the community. They helped organize our annual outing.”

“Outing?”

He reached over to the bookshelf and passed Dean a poster advertising a church outing to a local ghost town in the mountains. “A little late in the year for outings, isn’t it?” he asked.

The priest smiled. “We make the journey every year on the anniversary of the town’s founding. It’s quieter then. In the summer, the tourists are all renting SUVs and making the journey. It contributes to our local economy, so we go and give thanks in the old church. It’s quite a spectacle. You should come with us.”

“No offense, father, but I’m not really one for praying.”

“No offence taken. But you really should come. It’s a real event.”

“I’ll think about it,” Dean said. “Is there anything else you can tell me? Any insider knowledge.”

The priest eyed him shrewdly. “The confessional booth is a sacred place. I cannot share anything I learn in there.”

“But there’s something to tell?” The priest wouldn’t be refusing to share information if there was nothing to share.

“I can tell you that they were troubled souls,” he said. “Very troubled souls.”

Dean nodded thoughtfully. “Father, have there been any newcomers to town lately?” he asked. “Anyone suspicious?”

The priest smiled. “Only you.”

Dean drained his coffee and got to his feet. “Well, thanks for your help.”

“You’re most welcome, and if you change your mind, the bus will be leaving here at two for St. Elmo.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

xXx

Dean stopped at the diner to get lunch, and when got back to the motel, he changed out of his suit and into jeans and shirt. After eating, he laid down on the bed. Staring up at the ceiling, he thought over what he had learned. Both the sheriff and the priest had seemed to think it was a suicide but it still stood out as hinky to him. Four people, both apparently devout Catholics, choosing to kill themselves at the same time. One or two he could understand, but four…

He needed someone to talk it out with. He needed Sam, but that was nothing new; he’d needed Sam for months now. He looked at the adder stone and rosemary on the bedside table. He could curl up, have himself a nap and maybe Sam would come with the answer again. This was definitely a time of need. And then he could see him again. Even if he couldn’t say the things he needed to say, he would see him. He had almost made up his mind to try it when his phone rang.

He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the caller ID. “Bobby?”

“How’re you getting on?” Bobby asked.

“Not good,” Dean said. He told him about the deaths and his suspicions of Walt the coroner.

“So, you think it’s murder?” Bobby asked.

“I don’t know. The sheriff and priest say suicide…”

“What does your gut tell you?”

“That I’m missing something obvious,” Dean said with a sigh. “I just can’t work out what.”

“Sounds like it’s time to memento this thing,” Bobby said. “Get to it and call me back.”

Dean got to his feet and picked up the complimentary notepad the motel provided. He jotted down all the facts he knew about the case on scraps of paper and laid them out on the bed. Thirty minutes later, he had a collage of paper but no answers. His gut told him it was something to do with the demon, but the priest didn’t seem to think it was suicide. If anyone would know, it would be him.

The priest… Dean examined his instincts. He liked the priest. He wasn’t what he expected from a man of the cloth. He seemed casual and relatable in his jeans and shirt. Even the room he’d taken Dean into to talk was relaxed and comfortable rather than the vaulted church.

He sank down onto the edge of the bed and raked his hands through his hair. There was something he was missing, something obvious.

There was a rustling sound and his head snapped up to see Anna standing at the end of his bed. She was scowling. “Why haven’t you stopped it yet?”

“Stopped what?” Dean asked.

“The seal breaking!” she said stridently.

Dean raised a hand. “Hold up. What seal? I’m here on a demon gig.”

“The seal shall be broken when a good man is corrupted by The Beast’s teachings.”

“Okay. So who’s the good man?” Dean asked.

She huffed impatiently. “How did you survive as long as you have being so slow?”

Dean bristled with indignation. “I’m doing my best, okay. Tell me what I’m supposed to do and I will do it.”

“The seal is the priest. Father Douglas has fallen from the path. He has turned his back on God.”

“And I’m supposed to ventilate him because he’s stopped praying?”

“No, Dean, you are supposed to stop him killing—” She turned to look over her shoulder. “I have to go. They’re coming. Save the seal!”

Dean called out a protest, but it was too late; she was gone. He had a split second to ponder on the fickle nature of angels when one appeared in front of him.

“Castiel, man, you couldn’t have waited a minute? Anna was about to tell me what to do.”

“Anna was here? Where did she go?”

“Barbados? I hear it’s nice this time of year. How should I know? She shimmied out of here when she heard you coming, just before she could explain how I’m supposed to stop the seal breaking.”

“I cannot stay,” Castiel said hurriedly. “Anna must be stopped.”

“What about the seal? What am I supposed to do?” Dean demanded, but he was talking to thin air, Castiel had gone too.

He cursed and swept his hand over the scraps of paper littering his bed. The floated down to the floor, and Dean’s eye was caught by the one marked Father Douglas. According to Anna, he was supposed to stop him killing someone.

He grabbed his jacket and jogged out the door to the car. The storm that had threatened had arrived, and thunder rolled overhead. He looked up and saw the first flakes of snow on in the sky. He opened the trunk and loaded himself up with weapons, tucking Ruby’s knife into his inside pocket.

He drove as fast as he could in the thick snow, his mind awash with confusion. He had to get to the church before the buses left. The priest was apparently the man in the know, and he was about to head into the wilderness with a bunch of his congregation. Whatever way you looked at it, it spelled trouble.

As he rounded the corner that faced the church, he saw the bus pulling out onto the road. He honked his horn and flashed his lights, trying to get it to stop, but it continued down the road. Dean saw a hand wiping the condensation on the back window and then a face peered out at him. Dean squinted and saw it was Father Douglas, and he was smiling.

“Okay, Baby,” Dean said. “I know it’s been a while and I’ve been neglecting you, but if you can get me to St Elmo without wrapping us both around a tree I promise I’ll give you a full service and wax job.”

The bus had huge tires with snow chains and it made its steady way along the road. The Impala wasn’t so blessed. The bus soon pulled ahead of him and Dean had to resort to following the bus’ deep treads in the falling snow.

“C’mon, baby,” he chanted. “We can make it.”

The road wound its way up into the mountains and the snow came heavier. Dean’s phone beeped as it lost signal. The bus was long gone and the snow was quickly filling the tread marks when Dean passed under an old, wooden arch announcing that he had entered St Elmo. Buildings began lining the street, each perfectly restored to how it would have looked in the town’s heyday. It was like stepping back in time. If Dean wasn’t focused on stopping Father Douglas before he killed his congregation, he would have enjoyed it.

He turned a corner and sighed with relief. The bus was parked in front of a tall but basic looking church. He pulled the car to a stop and jumped out. Tucking his gun into the back of his pants, he pushed open the church doors just in time to see Father Douglas blessing a young woman who was kneeling at the altar.

“Agent DeYoung,” Father Douglas said. “I’m so glad you came.”

Dean was momentarily stymied. He could see no weapon on show. It looked like a regular church service. Could Anna have been wrong?

“Please take a seat,” Father Douglas said. “As you can see, we’re in the middle of communion.”

Dean remained standing, stunned into inertia.

The sheriff made his way out of his pew, shoving past people, and came up the aisle. “Now, really, Dean. Can’t you see we’re busy here?” He grinned and his eyes flashed black. “Real busy.”

Dean tensed and reached into his pocket for Ruby’s knife, but before he could grip the handle, the sheriff had thrust his arm into Dean’s chest, sending him flying through the church doors. He scrambled to his feet and made for the church again, but the doors had slammed shut. He put all his weight on them, trying to force them open, but they didn’t budge. He ran around the side of the church, looking for another way in, but there was nothing. Light crept through the wooden slats of the building and he pressed his eyes up against the gap. He could see the Sheriff standing by the doors, and the priest at the altar, reciting Latin. Instead of paying attention to the service, people were peering around and talking to each other about what had happened.

For the priest to be continuing regardless, Dean guessed whatever mojo he was working didn’t really involve prayer.

He tried the doors once more but they were held fast by the demon’s influence. His eyes moved to the Impala and he knew what he had to do. He climbed in and with a muttered apology, started the engine. He maneuvered so he was facing the church doors and then slammed his foot onto the gas pedal. The car lurched forward and crashed into the doors, splintering wood and creating a wide hole. Dean reversed and jumped out of the car.

Inside the church, people were screaming. Dean ran inside. The possessed sheriff had moved to stand at the altar beside the priest and he was speaking in a low voice to him.

As Dean entered, the screams increased, and he knew the people were seeing him as the threat. It gave him an idea. He pulled his gun out of the back of his jeans and raised it into the air. Pulling the trigger twice in rapid succession, he sent two shots into the roof. “Anyone still in here when I get to ten is dead!” he shouted. “One…Two…Three…”

People scrambled to the door, pushing others out of the way in their hurry to get out before Dean started shooting. Contrary to what Dean expected, Father Douglas and the sheriff remained at the altar, watching people leave without even attempting to stop their victims leaving.

“It’s too late,” the sheriff said. “They are all dead.”

Dean pulled Ruby’s knife out of his pocket and started forward, but the sheriff gave his arm a lazy wave and Dean was forced back against the wall, the knife dropped out of his hand and fell to the floor.

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” the demon said. “What are you going to do now? No knife and no brother to save your ass. The angels even seem to have deserted you.”

“Why are you doing this?” Dean asked the priest. “You’re human, right?”

Father Douglas nodded serenely. “I am doing this for the greater good. I am releasing our Master from his prison. For years I toiled in the name of God, working for the greater good, but what did it do for me? My congregation shrank and those zealots in Rome shunned me. The touch of the Lord on my heart faded. And then he came, my savior. Sheriff Morgan came to me and spoke the truth of our true Lord.”

“Satan?” Dean said scathingly, and he finally remembered where he had read the name on the book in the priest’s room. It was Anton LaVey, the author of the Book Of Satan. “So, you switched teams.”

The priest smiled. “I recognized our true master at last and I was blessed. I was given the chance to prove myself. I needed to make the sacrifice.”

Dean grunted as he tried to free himself. “The poisonings, that was you.”

“They were a test, to see if it would work. I poisoned the communion wafers. I thought it was poetic.”

“Why’d you want me here?” Dean asked. “You practically handed yourselves over to be killed.”

“As you’re doing such a good job of killing us now,” the sheriff said scathingly. “We wanted you here as we needed our sixty-sixth sacrifice. My congregation was one short.”

Dean smiled grimly. “Too bad I scared them all off, isn’t it?”

“Not at all. You were a little late. We finished communion while you were skulking around outside, trying to find a way in.”

Dean’s heart sank. All those people dead. “The wafers?”

“Incidentally, no.” Father Douglas said. “The wine.” He raised the silver goblet and stepped forward.

The sheriff gripped Dean’s jaw and he knew what was going to happen, though he couldn’t do a thing to stop it. His mouth was forced open and the goblet was brought to his mouth and tilted.

It was over, he knew it. He was going to die. And then two things happened at once. Father Douglas’ head jerked to the side violently with a harsh snapping sound and he dropped to the floor, and the sheriff was yanked away from Dean. The force holding him in place vanished and he dropped to his knees, spitting and wiping at his tongue to remove any traces of the wine that might have crept in.

There was high-pitched whining noise and Dean looked up in time to see Castiel with his hand pressed to the sheriff’s temple. He released him and he dropped to the floor.

“Nice timing,” Dean said breathlessly.

“You should go,” Castiel said. “The humans will reach town soon and the police will come.”

“The seal, did it break?” he asked.

He shook his head. “There were not enough people. You were to be the sixty-sixth.”

Dean got to his feet. “But the others… the ones that drank the wine?”

“They will die,” Castiel said dispassionately.

“Can’t you do something?” Dean asked. “Heal them. Angels can heal, right?”

“We can, with orders, but no orders have been given.”

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, summoning patience. He had questions to ask, and he didn’t think Castiel would be inclined to answer them if Dean gave him too much crap. There was a rustling sound and when he opened his eyes again, Castiel was gone.

xXx

Dean was back at halfway to Sioux Falls when he felt a presence in the seat beside him. It was a mark of how desensitized he had become to angels bouncing in and out of his life that he didn’t jump as he caught sight of Anna.

“What did I do this time?” he asked by way of a greeting.

“You saved a seal,” she said. “You did a good thing.”

“And yet sixty-five people are going to die,” Dean said bitterly.

“I regret it. I would help them if I could, but I am cut off from Heaven, and my powers are limited. That’s what happens when you fall.”

“But you got your grace back. I caught the light show.”

“Which makes me an angel again, but it doesn’t return me to Heaven.”

Dean pulled the car over to the side of the road and turned in his seat to talk to Anna. He had something he needed to ask her, and he wanted to see her reaction when he did. The questions he hadn’t been able to ask Castiel were going to be answered by Anna, or at least he hopes so.

“Why didn’t anyone warn me about the seal breaking?” Dean asked. “I thought I was supposed to be stopping it.”

Anna leaned back in her seat and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I don’t know. I have been asking myself the same question. There are over six-hundred to protect, so some could slip through the cracks, but this was an obvious one as soon as the first deaths occurred. I don’t understand why the garrison didn’t see…”

“You make it sound like they’re letting it happen on purpose.”

She shook her head jerkily. “I know you don’t have a high opinion of angels, but we are good. My kin are fighting and dying to protect the seals.”

Dean shrugged. “Then why are they still breaking?”

Anna sighed heavily. “I don’t know, Dean. But I intend to find out.”


	17. Chapter 17

Dean and Bobby walked through the front door, tired and aching after a particularly nasty vengeful-spirit hunt in North Dakota, to find two dour looking angels standing in the doorway to the library. Dean pushed past them and dropped his duffel down onto the couch.

“Can I help you?” he asked, not looking at them. “I’m assuming that’s why you’re here, because I can help. I don’t see a sign of you the rest of the time, like when I’m trying to work out how to stop your damn seals breaking.”

“Castiel saved you then,” Uriel said.

“Sure, after I almost got poisoned. Anna was the one that really helped. She told me what I was going after. Where were you then?”

“Dean, we know this is difficult to understand,” Castiel began.

“And we don’t care.” Uriel gave Castiel a look and Castiel bowed his head. “Now, seven angels have been murdered, all of them from our garrison. The last one was killed tonight.

“Demons?” Dean asked.

Uriel nodded.

“How they doing it?”

“We don't know.” Uriel looked furious, as if having to admit it was a failure in itself.

“I'm sorry, but what do you want us to do about it?” Bobby asked. “I mean, a demon with the juice to ice angels has to be out of our league, right?”

“We do not need you, old man,” Uriel said.

Bobby stiffened and Dean raised a hand. “Hey now!”

“We can handle the demons, thank you very much,” Uriel said stiffly, disregarding Bobby completely.

“Once we find whoever it is,” Castiel said.

“So you need help hunting a demon?” Dean asked with a smirk.

Castiel stepped away from the wall. “Not quite. We have Alastair.”

“Great.” Dean nodded. “He should be able to name your trigger man.”

“But he won't talk,” Castiel said. “Alastair's will is very strong. We've arrived at an… impasse.

Dean was unsurprised. “Yeah, well, he's like a black belt in torture. I mean, you guys are out of your league,” he said casually.

“That's why we've come to his student,” Uriel said with satisfaction. “You happen to be the most qualified interrogator we've got.”

Dean could feel everyone’s eyes on him and he looked down at the floor. He had a feeling he knew where this was going and he wasn’t going to do it.

“I don’t know where you’re getting your information from, but I’m not the man you need,” Dean said.

“We know what you did,” Uriel said darkly, “in the pit. The souls you tore apart. We know what you are capable of.”

They made it sound like he was a grand inquisitor, Dean thought. Sure he’d come off the rack, but it hadn’t even been a month with the knife. Sam had saved him from that part of himself.

“You trying to shame me into doing this?” he asked. “Because Bobby knows. I told him everything.”

“Dean, you are our best hope,” Castiel said.

Dean shook his head jerkily, anger coming to the fore. “No. No way. You can't ask me to do this, Castiel! Not this.”

Uriel sauntered forward, smiling grimly. “Who said anything about asking?”

Dean tried to step back but it was too late. He was already in motion. The walls of Bobby’s library disappeared and were replaced by rust-spotted walls with condensation dripping down them.

There was a door with a small window looking. Dean peered through it and saw Alastair bound to what looked like a solid iron pentacle set in the middle of an intricate devil’s trap.

“This devil's trap is old Enochian,” Castiel said. “He's bound completely.”

“Fascinating,” Dean said darkly. He turned away from the window and looked at Castiel. “Where's the door?”

“Where are you going?”

“Hitch back to Sioux Falls, thank you very much.”

Dean walked past Castiel and Uriel who was sitting on the edge of a desk, and made for the door, but Uriel appeared, blocking his path.

Uriel scowled at him. “Angels are dying, boy.”

“Everybody's dying these days. And hey, I get it. You're all-powerful. You can make me do whatever you want. But you can't make me do this.”

“This is too much to ask, I know. But we have to ask it.”

Dean stared into Castiel’s eyes and for the first time since he first met the angel he saw a trace of emotion in him. Castiel looked like he genuinely regretted what he was asking. That was the first weird thing happening. In all their previous dealings, Dean had got the impression that Castiel was the boss and Uriel his inferior, but now Castiel was silenced with a look. Something had happened and Dean wanted to know what it was.

He turned to Uriel. “I want to talk to Castiel alone.”

Uriel considered him for a moment. “I think I'll go seek revelation. We might have some further orders.”

Dean approached Castiel “What's going on, Castiel? Since when does Uriel put a leash on you?”

“My superiors have begun to question my sympathies.”

“Your sympathies?”

“I was getting too close to the humans in my charge. You. They feel I've begun to express emotions.”

Dean huffed a laugh. “This is you emotional? I have to say it, you’re not exactly big on the hugs. If this is you liking me, I’d hate to see you if you hated me.”

“Emotions are the doorways to doubt. This can impair my judgment,” Castiel said solemnly.

“Your judgment? You don’t want me doing this either, do you?”

“I don’t have any choice but to ask.”

“I can’t do it, Cas.” The shortened version of Castiel’s name slipped out, but it felt right. Castiel was finally showing he was more than an automaton following orders. This was a Castiel Dean could get to like. “I can’t break Alastair. He’s had centuries behind the knife. I only…”

“Only had a handful of days,” Castiel said. “But you had decades as the subject. You know what Alastair does to draw pain. You know how his mind works. You know how to hurt him.”

Dean turned away and raked his hands through his hair. He couldn’t do this, not just mentally, but literally too. He couldn’t break Alastair. All that would happen in that room was him inviting a darkness into himself. That haunted look in his eyes would increase tenfold and he would come out a new man.

“I can’t do it, Cas. I won’t.”

“Then I am very sorry for what I am about to do.” Castiel grabbed Dean’s arm and yanked open the door blocking Alastair from them. He shoved Dean through, sending him sprawling to the floor. Dean scrambled to his feet and made for the door but Castiel had already slammed it shut behind him. Dean was tempted to pound on the glass until Castiel released him, but he knew it would do no good. It would only feed Alastair’s pleasure. He turned slowly and looked into the eyes of his torturer.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise,” Alastair said in his nasal tone. “Have they sent you in to interrogate me?”

“Something like that,” Dean said smoothly, betraying no emotion.

“They think you can break me? Imbeciles.”

“They figure I learned something from you.”

“And they would be right.” Alastair leered at him. “You were the most promising student I ever had. It was such a shame that you were taken from me before your time. I could have made a master out of you.”

“Yeah, a real pity.”

Dean looked around the room and saw a wheeled trolley against one wall with a cloth covering it. Curious, he crossed to it and pulled back the sheet. There was an array of implements spread out like a surgeons tools. Some he recognized as ones he had both used and had used on him. Others he didn’t even have a name for. Ruby’s knife was on there too, making him wonder when they’d snagged it from him. He patted his pockets and realized his cell was gone too. He supposed no one was better at sleight of hand than an angel.

He ran his hands over the tools and the screams of the past echoed in his ears. Screams of his own and those that he’d drawn from the souls on his rack. Shame filled him and he drew a hitching breath.

“Happy memories, Dean?”

Cursing his slip, Dean turned back to Alastair, a plan forming in his mind. “You got one chance. One. Tell me who's killing the angels. I want a name.”

“You think I'll see all your scary toys and spill my guts?”

“I know you will,” Dean said. “Bullies are always scared of their victims and I’ve never known a bigger bully than you. I think you’ll break hard and fast.”

Alastair laughed. “Interesting theory. Tell me, Dean, did your daddy tell you that?”

Dean remained silent.

“John Winchester, now he was a real man.”

Dean spoke through gritted teeth. “You don’t know anything about him.”

“I know he was a better man that you. A stronger man. I had your pop on my rack for close to a century. He made a good name for himself. A hundred years. After each session, I'd make him the same offer I made you. I'd put down my blade if he picked one up.”

Dean turned away and looked resolutely at the array of weapons on the trolley. He could take any one of them and start cutting in to Alastair… But he couldn’t. That would be to open a door there was no return from.

“Your father never broke,” Alastair said. “He said no every time. Think how disappointed he’d be in you and your brother now, knowing neither of you could last it out like him. Admittedly, your brother outlasted you, but not by much. It was no great shock to us, with Lilith riding him the way she did. In fact, I’m impressed he lasted as long as he did. You thought you had it bad with me. You have no idea the things Lilith came up with. She was my teacher and even I never learned to slice and carve the way she could. She made it an art form.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. He couldn’t look at Alastair while he was saying these things. He couldn’t let him see the effect his words were having. His mind was battered with images of Sam from the nightmares he used to have. Sam twisted and naked on the rack, waiting for Dean’s blade to cut into him. Then he imagined Lilith, as he had last seen her in Ruby’s body, standing over Sam and flensing the flesh from his bones. A shudder worked its way up his spine and he knew Alastair had seen it as he laughed raucously.

“He broke so bad he’s beyond repair. He’s not ever human anymore. He’s—“

Alastair’s words cut off as Dean lunged at him with Ruby’s knife held aloft. He plunged it into Alastair’s chest, right over his heart. Energy crackled around the wound and Alastair sagged against his restraints. For a second Dean thought he was dead, but then he raised his head and spat a globule of blood onto the floor.

“Nice,” he said. “I knew given the right motivation you’d overcome your stage fright. Now, let’s get to this.” He nodded towards the trolley. “I see some holy water there. Let’s start with that.”

Dean reeled back, the bloody knife still in his hand. He’d done it, what he swore he wouldn’t do again. He’d broken. He hadn’t been able to stop himself though. He couldn’t listen to the things Alastair said about Sam and remain calm. He was terrified he knew what Alastair was trying to say, and that thought threatened to break him.

“Tell me who’s killing the angels,” he said, picking up a bottle of holy water.

“Ask nicely,” Alastair spat.

“Tell me or I will pour this down your throat for the pure joy of watching you sizzle.”

Alastair opened his mouth wide and raised his eyebrows, goading Dean. With a reluctant sigh, Dean stepped forward and tilted the bottle to Alastair’s lips.

xXx

Alastair was sagging against his bonds, bleeding from too many wounds to count but he was still unbroken. He dragged his head up and smiled at Dean. “Are we done? I was just starting to enjoy myself.”

Dean turned away and appraised the weapons on offer. They were all wet with Alastair’s blood, and Dean was swiftly running out of ideas. He picked up a shaker of salt and walked back into the devil’s trap. He gripped Alastair’s chin and forced his mouth open. He smiled grimly as he poured the salt into Alastair’s mouth. The demon choked and rasped and then spat out the salt, clearing his mouth with bloody spit.

Dean picked up Ruby’s knife once again and plunged it into Alastair’s gut, twisting the blade in the wound.

“You’re doing good, Champ,” he said in a hoarse voice. “These are valuable skills. You’re going to need them when you find your brother.”

“Shut up,” he said quietly.

“There’s no hiding from the truth. You know what I am trying to tell you.”

“I said shut up!” Dean shouted.

Alastair looked supremely satisfied at Dean’s reaction. This was what he wanted, Dean thought, the reaction. He dipped the knife on holy water and then shook the salt over it, coating the blade.

“It usually takes centuries,” Alastair said, “millennia of earth time. But Sam always was special.”

Dean did his best to ignore him as he ran the blade over Alastair’s chest, parting the skin.

“Rejoice for he is risen!” Alastair shouted. “He walks among us once again.”

“You’re lying,” Dean said.

“Am I? I don’t think so, and neither do you.”

Dean turned his back on Alastair and closed his eyes. He had suspected this was what Alastair had been trying to tell him, but suspicion and actually hearing it were two different things. The thought that Sam, his good, pure-hearted, innocent brother, could be back as a demon was too much. He had a breaking point and this was it.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Oh, but you do. I can see it in your eyes.”

“It takes centuries,” Dean said.

“Usually, it does, yes, but you see Sam was already halfway there. With that demon blood running through his veins, it was just a matter of time before he went—what’s the word you use?—oh yes, darkside. He is on earth again, Dean, and he is looking for you.”

xXx

“Are we done already?” Alastair asked. “I have plenty more to say, and you’re giving me just the right motivation.”

Dean shook his head. Nothing Alastair could say to him now could be worse than what he’d already said. He remained standing over the tray of torture implements, with his head bowed. His heart was shattering into a thousand pieces. He thought he could stand like this forever. Just absorbing what Alastair had said as he had for the last countless minutes. It could have been hours for all he knew.

“Don’t tell me you’ve had enough already,” Alastair said. “I have so much more to say.“

Dean turned back to face him, thinking that nothing else Alastair could say would be worse than what he’d already heard.

“Your daddy was supposed to bring it on, you know. But, in the end, it was you.”

“Bring what on?” Dean asked tonelessly.

Alastair’s eyes were alight with mirth as he prepared to impart this new secret. “The first time you picked up my razor, the first time you sliced into that weeping bitch. That was the first seal.”

Dean didn’t react. He kept his eyes locked on Alastair’s and continued to breath calm, deep breaths, when inside he was reeling. Was it possible? Could he have started this nightmare?

“And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in hell. As he breaks, so shall it break. We had to break the first seal before any others. Only way to get the dominoes to fall, right? Topple the one at the front of the line. When we win, when we bring on the apocalypse and burn this earth down, we'll owe it all to you, Dean Winchester.”

Dean remained impassive. He wouldn’t let Alastair have the satisfaction of knowing how rattled he was.

“Believe me, son, I wouldn't lie about this. It's kind of a religious sort of thing with me.”

Dean shrugged nonchalantly. “No. I don't think you are lying. But even if the demons do win...” He turned away and picked up Ruby’s knife. “You won't be there to see it.”

He turned, ready to resume his task, but Alastair wasn’t there. Hands gripped the back of his shirt and spun him. Alastair shoved him against the pentacle. Dean looked down and saw the devil’s trap had been broken by a puddle of water.

“You should talk to your plumber about the pipes.”

Dean waited for the killing blow, welcoming it even, but Alastair didn’t strike. Instead, he grinned.

“I know what you’re thinking, Dean. And it’s not going to happen. I would like to kill you, but I can’t. There is still work for you to do. Besides, I made a promise to someone special.”

“Lilith.”

Alastair shook his head and leaned close to whisper in Dean’s ear. It was only one word, but it was a word that tore Dean in two. A tear slipped down his cheek even as Alastair’s hand tightened around his throat, casting him into darkness.

xXx

The first sound to reach him was a rhythmic beeping sound and knew immediately where he was. With consciousness came pain. He felt like his throat had been slit. Even breathing hurt. He fought to open his eyes and looked around the room. The walls were painted a sterile white and there was a wide window with slatted blinds. Through the slats, he could see a glimpse of the sky; it was night. He looked to his left and saw Bobby sitting in a chair. He was asleep with his chin resting on his hand.

“Bobby.” His voice came out cracked and hoarse but Bobby heard him anyway. He jerked awake.

“What?” he said, looking around blearily. His eyes came to rest on Dean and he breathed a sigh of relief. “Dean, thank god you’re okay.”

“What happened?”

“Not sure. Castiel appeared in my kitchen and told me I’d find you here. That was two days ago. Thought you were never going to wake up. Docs said your throat was crushed. Looked like you’d been strangled half to death.”

Dean remembered Alastair’s hand around his throat and what he’d said. “Not all the way though.”

“Huh?”

“He wasn’t supposed to kill me.”

“Dean, you aren’t making a lick of sense,” Bobby said. “You want me to get the doc in here?”

Dean shook his head. “It was Alastair. I was supposed to interrogate him.”

Bobby frowned. “And you didn’t?”

Dean looked determinedly at the opposite wall. “I tried not to, I really did, but yeah, I tortured him.”

“No judgment here,” Bobby said, holding up his hands. “You do what you have to do. Did it work? Did you hear who’s killing the angels?”

“No,” Dean said darkly. “He said plenty more though.”

“Such as?” Bobby said interestedly.

Dean couldn’t say it. He couldn’t bring himself to share what Alastair had told him about Sam being back. Best case scenario, Bobby would feel the same heart wrenching grief that he himself felt. Worst case… Bobby would put the hunt out on Sam. He eyed Bobby carefully and wondered which it would be.

“Just a lot of taunting,” Dean said eventually. “Nothing important.”

Bobby nodded and yawned.

“You should get some sleep, Bobby. You look wrecked.”

“I’m sure I looked a damned sight better than you,” Bobby said. “You look like Hell.”

“Maybe I need some more sleep, too,” Dean said.

“Okay, I’ll go get a motel. I’ll be back in the morning and we can see about springing you from this place.”

Dean liked the idea of that. He hated hospitals, always had. They were only ever in them when an injury was so bad it couldn’t be healed with field surgery. He guessed being choked by a pissy demon was a good enough reason to be in one.

He closed his eyes and waited as he heard Bobby grab his coat from the back of the chair and make his exit. When he was sure he’d gone, he opened his eyes again.

“Come on then,” he said. “I know you’re here.”

He might not be able to see the angel but he could feel its presence. The only question was which one it was.

Castiel appeared in the corner of the room and he moved to sit in the chair Bobby had vacated.

“Are you all right?” Castiel asked.

“No thanks to you.”

“You need to be more careful.

“You need to learn how to manage a damn devil's trap,” Dean said.

“That's not what I mean, Alastair escaped.”

Dean took a deep breath, feeling it burning his throat and asked one of the two questions he needed answering. “Is it true? Did I break the first seal? Did I start all this?”

“Yes.”

Dean turned away from him and fixed his eyes on the opposite wall.

“When we discovered Lilith's plan for you, we prepared to lay siege to hell. We hoped to save you before you…”

“Jump-started the apocalypse,” Dean finished for him. “But you were too late. Hell, even Sammy was too late.”

“It's not blame that falls on you, Dean, it's fate. The righteous man who begins it is the only one who can finish it. You have to stop it.”

“Lucifer? The apocalypse? What does that mean?”

“I don't know.”

“Bull.”

“I don't. Dean, they don't tell me much. I know our fate rests with you.”

“And what about the rest of what Alastair said?” Dean asked, disregarding the mention of his fate. “I know you were standing out there listening.”

“I don’t know,” Castiel said again. “There are thirteen new demons come to earth since the year’s end, and I do not know who any of them once were.”

“What do you think?” Dean asked. “You’ve got to have an opinion. Angels are allowed opinions, right.”

Castiel stared Dean down. “My opinion is that you should forget the things you cannot alter and fight the war that only you can win.”

“You think I forget my brother?”

Castiel remained resolutely quiet and Dean drew his own answer from the silence.

It didn’t matter to him what Castiel said. He couldn’t forget his brother.


	18. Chapter 18

**_Chapter Eighteen_ **

 

No matter what case Dean took, he couldn’t shake what Alastair had said about Sam from his thoughts. Time had passed and winter had moved into spring and still Dean dwelled on the possibility that Sam could be back. His birthday had come and gone unnoticed but Dean had marked Sam’s by going to Bill’s and spending the night getting wasted in the kitchen with Jo. It had been cathartic to be close to Sam, even though he hadn’t been able to force himself to acknowledge the grave beyond the door. He hadn’t shared what Alastair had told him with anyone. The only person that knew was Castiel, and Dean would have preferred if he didn’t know either. To speak of it made it seem real.

Without explaining why, he passed on every demon hunt Bobby offered, instead taking werewolves, wendigos, vampires and every other fugly Bobby came across. There weren’t enough hunts to keep him distracted though, and many nights were spent in grungy motels with nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company. He found himself thinking of Sam, as he had been a lot, but the memories weren’t enough to satisfy him. For every scene he could remember, there seemed to be one he’d lost. One evening, he found he couldn’t remember the name of the town he and Sam had taken the hunt in after Dean had sprung Sam from Stanford. It had panicked him, and he’d spent the night poring over maps of California until he had the name—Jericho. If he could forget small details like that, how long would it be before he forgot the details of Sam? Would he wake up one morning and be unable to remember Sam’s voice or how he’d looked bent over his laptop, researching some new case? The thought terrified him. He knew Bobby had old photos of them as children at his house from their visits, but Dean only had the photos on Sam’s fake IDs to remember him by, and they were painful to look at. He locked them away in the trunk of the Impala, unable to throw them away in case he needed them to remember one day, but unable to look at them.

It was April, almost nine months after Sam had died and Dean had been raised, when he entered the small comic book store in Stillwater, Oklahoma. A bell tinkled overhead and the man behind the counter looked up from the comic he was reading to appraise Dean. As he was dressed in his fed suit, Dean guessed he didn’t fit the store’s usual clientele, which explained the clerk’s interest.

“Uh... can I help you?” he asked.

Dean pulled out his fed badge and held it up for the man to examine. “Sure hope so. Agent DeYoung. Just need to ask you a few questions.”

There were two types of people in the world in Dean’s estimation. Those that believed the con straight off—usually those that were awed by the badge—and those that needed some persuasion. Judging by the doubtful look he was giving Dean, the clerk was a skeptic. He tucked the badge back in his pocket and hurried on before the clerk could get a good look at it. “Notice anything strange in the building, last couple of days?”

“Like what?” the man said blandly.

“Well, some other tenants reported flickering lights.”

“Uh, I don't think so. Why?”

Dean wondered what the man would do if he told him the truth, that he was tracing a vengeful spirit that was venting her spleen on unsuspecting tenants of Main Street. It was tempting to try it, even if only to see the man pale as he told him the ghost’s preferred method of death, but he pushed down the urge.

“What about noises? Any skittering in the walls? Kind of like rats?”

The man crossed his arms over his chest. “And the FBI is investigating a rodent problem?”

“What about cold spots? Feel any sudden drops in temperature?”

Suddenly, inexplicably, the man laughed. “I knew it! You’re LARPing, aren't you?”

Dean was honestly confused. “Excuse me?”

“You're a fan.”

“Fan of what? What’s LARPing?”

“Like you don’t know.” The man chuckled. Dean merely looked at him, hoping to express his confusion through his face alone. The man seemed to get the hint. “Live-Action Role-Play! And pretty hardcore, too. Though, hope you don’t mind me saying, you need a buddy. It’d be a whole lot more believable if you had a partner.”

“I'm sorry; I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“You're asking questions like the building's haunted. Like those guys from the books. What are they called? Uh... Supernatural. Two guys, use fake IDs with rock aliases, hunt down ghosts, demons, vampires. What are their names? Uh... Steve and Dirk? Uh, Sal and Dane?”

Dean felt a chill creep down his spine. “Sam and Dean?”

“That's it!”

“You're saying this is a book?”

The man nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah. A series really. It didn’t sell a lot of copies…”

Dean tuned him out as he tried to wrap his mind around what he was hearing. A book about him and Sam, a series even. Could it be a coincidence? Another hunter making a few bucks off of the nastier side of the world? But why would they choose Sam and Dean as their characters. Was this someone’s idea of a joke?

“You have the books here?” he asked, cutting off the man’s ramblings.

“Yeah, should have.” He made his way over to a table marked bargain bin and plucked out a book. “Here, this is the first.”

Dean took the book and read the blurb on the back. It was a basic description of Sam and Dean’s first solo hunt—the woman in white. The vengeful-spirit hunt completely forgotten, he said, “I need every copy of these books that you have.”

xXx

Dean had never been much of a reader, but he devoured the books. It was like meeting an old friend… or brother. It was like he was rediscovering Sam with every page. Whoever wrote these books didn’t just narrate what had happened, he’d known what they were thinking, what _Sam_ was thinking. Dean had spent his life trying to decipher that, but Carver Edlund, whoever he was, had known.

Dean had thought he understood what Sam was going through after Jessica’s death, but from the books, he learned that he’d had no clue. His grief had been so intense it was a wonder he’d been able to function, but function he had and more; he’d fought. And after their father’s death, Dean had been so caught up in his own grief that he’d missed Sam’s tremendous guilt for what had happened and the way he and John had parted. He’d always thought of Sam as an open book. He never seemed to have an emotion he didn’t share with the world, but he was so wrong. Sam buried so much so deep. Dean felt like an asshole for not seeing it himself when this stranger had known it all along.

On the seventh day, he closed _No Rest For The Wicked_ and rubbed at his tired eyes. He’d been mainlining coffee for days to keep him alert to read. He hadn’t slept much because the books had nagged at him, like a phantom itch that could only be scratched by reading. The sadness he felt as he closed the book wasn’t merely for what he’d just read—Sam’s reaction to Dean’s death had been hard—but for what happened next. For days there had been something to focus on, something that made him feel that Sam was close, now there was no more. He looked at the books spread across the coverlet and considered starting over from the beginning. That wasn’t what he wanted though. He needed to know what happened next. What had Sam done in the weeks between Dean’s death and his deal? What had he been thinking in those times? He knew some of it, through Jo and Ellen and what Castiel had showed him, but he needed to know more.

He needed to speak to the author.

He no longer cared how or why this person knew so much about their lives. For all Dean cared they could have been followed from the start by some kind of supernatural telepath. What was important was that this person told him what had happened next. Dean hadto know more.

He looked at the spine of the book and got the publishers name as _Flying Wiccan Press._ He got to his feet, feeling the stiffness after spending so long lying down, and pulled the laptop out of his duffel. He waited while it booted up and connected to the motel’s Wi-Fi service, and then he did a Google search. There was a contact number and he wasted no time dialing it up on his cell phone.

A female voice came over the receiver. “This is Flying Wiccan Press. There is no one to take your call at the moment, but if you leave your name and number, we’ll get back to you soon.”

“Umm… this is…” Dean rallied for a name they wouldn’t recognize from one of the books. “Dirk Winters. I am writing an article on the Supernatural books for The Supernaturalist Blog and I would like to talk to someone about Carver Edlund as an author. My number is 1-866-907-3235."

He ended the call and grumbled about part-time publishers taking long lunches before his eyes caught the starburst clock on the wall. It was two o’clock, but Dean realized he had no idea if that was afternoon or morning. Pulling back the drapes, he realized it was morning as it was dark outside. He looked at the bed, knowing he should get some sleep, but he felt too wired to rest. He was driving distance from Bobby’s. If he shagged ass, he could make it in time for breakfast. Decided, he grabbed up the laptop and stuffed it into the duffel, followed by the stack of books from the bed.

Within a few minutes, he was on the road.

xXx

“Thought you were in Oklahoma,” Bobby said by way of a greeting when Dean arrived on his doorstep.

“I was. Decided to make a run here. There’s something I want to show you. You got coffee?” His words poured out in a rush. The mid-journey espresso run at the KwikMart had been a bad idea.

“Are you high?” Bobby asked.

“No, just a little caffeinated.” He took a deep breath and willed himself to talk like a grown man instead of a gibbering, teenage girl confronted with her idol. “I found something.”

He dropped his duffel down on the kitchen table and pulled out the first book he came to.

Bobby took it and read from the back cover. “Sam and Dean hunt a shapeshifter that has framed Sam’s college friend for murder. The hunters become the hunted when the police join the action.” He paused and turned the cover. “Sam and Dean?”

Dean nodded. “Some writer’s been given the inside scoop on our lives.”

Bobby looked at the book again. “You telling me this is the story of you and Sam going after a shapeshifter?”

“Not just any shapeshifter. It’s the one that copied my face and got me framed for murder. The hunt is the story, _our_ story. The dude knows everything about us, and I mean everything. He’s got some kind of hotwire into what we’re thinking.”

“My God,” Bobby huffed. “That’s just…”

“Insane, right? But it’s true. I just spent the last seven days reading them. There are twenty-four in all and they’re exact down to the last detail. Hell, this guy’s even written me full frontal.”

“I’ll steer clear of that one,” Bobby said, taking the books out of Dean’s duffel and examining them one by one. “And these are all about cases you and Sam took?”

“Yeah. There are plenty that aren’t there, but the ones that are there, are all real cases.”

“I’ll be damned. Who…? I mean how…?”

“It’s a lot to wrap your mind around,” Dean said. “I’m still kinda getting used to the idea. I tried calling up the publishers but it was kinda late. I left a message, but they haven’t got back to me.”

“You want to talk to the writer?” Bobby guessed.

“Wouldn’t you? He knows everything, Bobby, and I mean everything. What we’re thinking…”

“What Sam was thinking?” Bobby asked softly.

Dean looked determinedly at the opposite wall and nodded. “Yeah.”

“And you want to talk to him about Sam.” It wasn’t a question, so Dean didn’t feel the need to answer.

He crossed the room instead and poured himself a mug of coffee. He was just bringing it to his lips when Bobby reached out and took it from him. “You need sleep not coffee,” he chided.

“I’m fine, Bobby.”

“When did you last sleep?”

That was a loaded question. Dean didn’t feel like he’d slept properly for months. He’d not been dreaming, Missouri’s tricks had stopped that, but he didn’t sleep peacefully. He hadn’t since Sam had died.

“Go upstairs and get some sleep,” Bobby said. “I’ll track down this”—he checked the cover of the book in his hand—“Carver Edlund and fix it for you to talk to him.”

“You sure?”Dean asked.

“Get some sleep,” Bobby said gruffly. “You look like Hell.”

Dean grabbed his duffel and made for the stairs. “Wake me when you get something.”

Bobby grunted in response and Dean took that as agreement.

xXx

When Dean woke, the sky was dark outside. He stretched and yawned then threw back the blankets and climbed out of the bed. Running his hands through his sleep-ruffled hair, he made his way down the stairs. Bobby was sitting on the couch with _Wendigo_ open on his lap. He looked up as Dean entered. “These books are really something else.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Were you really thinking what he says you were thinking in these?”

Dean nodded.

“So, you believe it’s your fault that Jessica died?”

Dean looked away. “That’s not what’s important, Bobby.”

“No?” He considered for a moment. “I guess not. Well, I found your author. Carver Edlund is just a penname. The guy’s real name is Chuck Shurley.”

“Chuck?” Dean said doubtfully. It didn’t sound all that impressive for someone with the ability to read minds.

“It’s the right name,” Bobby said. “I spent a couple hours going through the Library of Congress looking for it.”

Dean nodded. “Don’t suppose they had an address there, too.” That would have been too helpful.

“They didn’t,” Bobby said and Dean scowled. “But WhitePages did. He’s holed up in Faith, on the other side of the state.”

“Awesome. Let’s get to it.”

Bobby shook his head. “You might want to wait till morning. It’s a five hour drive and maybe you didn’t notice, but it’s nine-pm. Your days and nights are all twisted up.”

“Why didn’t you wake me sooner?”

“Because you looked like hell and you needed sleep. Dean, the bags under your eyes had bags under their eyes. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard lately, going from one hunt to the next. I get why you’re doing it, but you need to take care of yourself or you’re going to get hurt.”

Dean would have argued but he was too grateful to Bobby for tracking down the writer that he didn’t bother. Instead, he dropped down on the couch beside Bobby and plucked Wendigo from Bobby’s lap. If he couldn’t go to the writer yet, he could lose a few hours reading about his brother.

xXx

Dean pulled up in front of the address Bobby had given him and stared at the house. It wasn’t what you’d expect from a semi-successful writer. He had to have earned some money from the books, but this house clearly hadn’t seen any of it. The front yard was strewn with weeds and brambles and there was what looked like an old, rusted bike leaning against the porch. Dean climbed out of the car and made his way up the steps. He paused and took a breath before pressing the doorbell. He saw movement through the rippled glass and a moment later, the door swung open.

For the man that had direct access to his and Sam’s life, Dean was expecting something a little more impressive from Chuck Shurley. He was disappointed. The man in front of him was wearing a stained vest, boxer shorts and a ratty robe.

“Can I help you?” the man asked.

“Chuck Shurley?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“The Chuck Shurley that wrote the supernatural books?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Dean. The Dean you’ve been writing about.”

Chuck slammed the door in Dean’s face. Dean leaned on the doorbell, refusing to yield.

The door opened and the man peered out. “Look, I appreciate your enthusiasm. Really, I do. It's always nice to hear from the fans. But, for your own good, I strongly suggest you get a life.”

He tried to close the door again but Dean put out a hand to stop him. He had tried the gentle approach but now he was going to get some answers.

“See, here's the thing. I have a life. You've been using it to write your books.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Chuck said, but there was something in his tone that betrayed the lie.

Dean grabbed him and dragged him down the steps to the car. Keeping a firm grip on Chuck’s arm, he unlocked the trunk and revealed the wealth of weapons stored there.

“Are those real guns?” Chuck asked nervously.

“Yup. And if you don’t start telling me the truth I am going to shoot you in the foot with one.”

Chuck blanched and Dean slammed the trunk. He let go of Chuck’s arm but the man didn’t move. He seemed stunned into inertia.

“My name is Dean Winchester.”

If it was possible, Chuck turned ever paler. “The last names were never in the books. I never told anybody about that. I never even wrote that down.”

Dean stared him down, waiting for the moment of realization to dawn. It came. Chuck swayed on his feet. “That’s… impossible.”

“C’mon, chuckles,” Dean said. “You and I are going to have a little talk.”

He grabbed Chuck’s arm and led him back into the house. They came into an untidy lounge. There were liquor bottles strewn around and a large desk with a computer set up behind the couch. On the desk there were stacks of paper. It looked like Dean had interrupted Chuck in the process of penning his next masterpiece.

Chuck shuffled across the room and grabbed up a bottle of whiskey. He poured a generous measure and gulped it down. Dean waited with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting for Chuck to finish his meltdown.

“You’re really here,” Chuck said.

Dean nodded.

“And you’re really Dean.”

“You telling me you don’t recognize me from your books.

“Sure, there are resemblances.” Chuck closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead. “But… they’re just books.”

“Apparently not. You see, I’ve read all your books and you’ve got every detail right. Even down to what we were thinking.”

Chuck straightened and smiled. “Well, there's only one explanation. Obviously I'm a god.”

“You’re not a god,” Dean said patiently.

“How else do you explain it? I write things and then they come to life. Yeah, no, I'm definitely a god. A cruel, cruel, capricious god. The things I put you through… And Sam… Oh God. Is that why you’re here? Have you come to kill me?” He stepped behind the desk as if that could defend him.

“I’m not here to kill you.”

“How could you not? I sent you to Hell. I sent Sam—“

“Enough!” Dean said holding up his hands. He didn’t want to hear the rest of Chuck’s sentence. He hadn’t sent Sam to Hell. That was impossible. “You’re not a god and you didn’t make anything happen. I figure you’re some kind of psychic. ”

“If you’re not here to kill me, then what do you want?”

“You stopped writing after I went to Hell,“ Dean began, trying to find a way to word his need.

“No,” Chuck said. “My publisher went bankrupt, so there were no new books, but I kept writing. I’ve been…” He groaned and picked up a sheaf of papers from the desk. “I wrote this. I wrote myself, at my house... confronted by my character.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “And yet you didn’t believe me when I told you who I was.”

“Who’d believe that?”

Dean nodded. “I guess you’ve got a point. But if you’ve written this already, you know what I’m going to ask.”

Chuck looked apologetic. “I can’t see Hell. I don’t know if he broke or…”

“Or if he’s a demon,” Dean finished for him. “But do you know the rest, what happened after I died?”

“Yeah, but”—Chuck raked a hand through his beard—“I don’t know why I’m saying this, as I know it won’t work, but, Dean, you don’t want to know what happened. Just trust me when I say Sam was at peace with his decision. He had no regrets. He knew he was doing the right thing.”

“The right thing!” Dean said harshly. “Him going to Hell was the right thing?”

“It was for Sam. He couldn’t live it any other way.”

“And what about me?” Dean asked. “Did he consider what I that I would have to live it instead?”

“No.” Chuck sighed. “But neither did you. When you went to the crossroads demon in _All Hell Breaks Loose_ you didn’t think of what Sam would have to live with.”

Dean knew he was right, but it was easier for him to blame Sam for what he’d done rather than himself. It allowed him to translate some of his grief to anger, and anger was easier to deal with. He opened his mouth to ask Chuck more, to ask what Sam had been thinking and feeling in the days he was in Hell, but Chuck beat him to it, holding out a stack of papers.

“It’s all in here. Everything Sam was thinking and doing. But I beg you not to read it. You don’t want to know.”

Dean took the stack of paper from him. It was all in here. Everything he wanted to know about the months he’d missed. What Sam had been thinking? What had driven him to that crossroads? He held the papers in his hands as if they were something precious. To him they were.


	19. Chapter 19

**_Chapter Nineteen_ **

 

Bobby was sitting at the table with _Phantom Traveler_ open in front of him when Dean got back to the motel. “How’d it go?” he asked as Dean came in.

Dean held up the sheaf of papers. “I got what I came for.”

“Did you find out how he’s doing it?”

Dean looked at him blankly. “Doing what?”

“Everything,” Bobby said impatiently. “How does he know so much?”

Dean huffed a laugh. “Well, _he_ thinks he’s a god.

“Is that so unbelievable? You and Sam have taken on gods before.”

“Yeah, but they were just pagans. For Chuck to be controlling it all, he’d have to be _the_ God. Nah, I think he’s just psychic.”

“Is that because you want him to be psychic? Because if he was controlling it, it would mean you and Sam are just puppets to the whim of a writer.”

“I don’t see that it matters either way, Bobby. If he is controlling it, he’s already done his worst. Nothing he can come up with now can be worse than what’s already happened.”

“The apocalypse?”

Dean turned away. Unwilling to say what he was thinking. The apocalypse was just the end of the world. Dean had already suffered through worse.

“Dean…” Bobby probed.

“I’m done talking about it,” Dean said with finality. “I’ve got some reading to do.”

He threw himself down on the bed and began reading the first of the pages Chuck had given him. It was hard to read—Sam’s pain was palpable—and grisly in places. His own burial was especially difficult to read. He knew how hard it had been for him to bury Sam, and now he knew Sam had suffered just as much as he had when it had been his turn.

He read each fact greedily, never satisfied. For every thought and emotion that Chuck had transcribed, there were a hundred missing. The narration of Sam’s day-to-day events got in the way of what Dean needed to know.

He had just come to Ruby’s return, a section he wanted to know more about, when his phone rang. Irritated by the interruption, he glanced at the screen and saw an unknown number, probably meaning it was an old acquaintance from a case. He didn’t give his number out often except to people like the cops, and only then because he suspected more information was coming. “Agent DeYoung.”

“It’s me,” Chuck said. “You need to come over.”

“I’m kinda busy right now, Chuck. Can’t it wait?”

Bobby looked disapproving. He had put his book down when the phone rang, attentive and alert. Dean was still attempting to read the pages while talking with Chuck.

“I know you’re going to come,” Chuck said, “I’ve seen it, so just get in the car and drive.”

There was something off in Chuck’s tone. He was more forceful than he had been when Dean had last spoken to him.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

He heard a heavy sigh. “I’ll tell you when you get here.”

Groaning, Dean set down the pages in his hand and got to his feet. “We’ll be right there.”

“You don’t have to bring Bobby.” Chuck sounded like the man Dean had first met again—a little nervous.

“You try telling him that.” Hanging up the call, he grabbed his jacket and tugged it on. “Gotta go see, Chuck. I don’t think he wanted you to come.”

Bobby grabbed up his own jacket. “Tough luck. I’ve been wanting a word with him.”

They drove the few minutes across town to Chuck’s house in the Impala, with Bobby taking Sam’s seat. Dean tried not to let it bother him but it burned a little. As they pulled up outside Chuck’s ramshackle house, Dean saw the curtains twitching. They climbed out of the car and Dean leaned heavily on the doorbell, impatiently wanting to get back to the motel and the pages of Sam’s story.

Chuck answered and his eyes lingered on Bobby.

“Take a picture,” Bobby said irritably. “It’ll last longer.”

“Wow, I didn’t do your character justice,” Chuck said. “I didn’t make you nearly ornery enough.”

Dean grinned in spite of himself. He was pretty much numb to Bobby’s moods by now, but seeing him through Chuck’s eyes in the books made him realize just how bad he could be.

“So, what did you want to talk to us about?” Dean asked.

“You better come in.”

They trailed into the house. Chuck had clearly been writing again as the computer screen was casting light over the desk and there were more papers scattered around, along with a fresh bottle of whiskey. Dean looked around, thinking that if this was what having a home was like, he’d stick with motels.

Bobby crossed his arms over his chest. “Well?” When Chuck looked blank, Bobby continued. “What new hoop are you going to make Dean jump through this time?”

Chuck ran a hand through his hair. “It’s not like I want it to happen…”

“And yet I’m having trouble believing that,” Bobby said. “What are you?”

“I don’t know,” Chuck said. “I just see it.”

“When were you born? Did your mother die in a nursery fire?”

“You think he’s one of the special children?” Dean asked. “Like Sam.”

Bobby nodded. “It’s a possibility. There has to be something demonic going on here.”

“I’m not demonic. I’m not one of them!” Chuck said. “I was born in nineteen-seventy. My mother is alive, well and playing mahjong in Miami. I swear. I don’t mean Dean any harm.”

“Just tell me, Chuck,” Dean said. “What did you see?”

“Lilith.”

“What about her?” Dean asked through gritted teeth. Just the mention of the demon was enough to make his jaw clench so hard his teeth hurt. She was the one that had been torturing Sam, she was the one that had—possibly—broken him. She was the one he wanted to see dead more than any other. He didn’t think it was possible for him to hate anyone more than her. Compared to Lilith, Azazel had been a minor annoyance.

“She’s coming for you,” Chuck said apologetically.

“Okay, that’s enough!” Bobby said striding forward and reaching for the inside pocket of his jacket. He pulled out his preferred, old revolver. Aiming it at Chuck’s leg, he said, “Tell me how you’re doing this. Why are you sending Lilith after Dean?”

Chuck raised his hand in front of him. “Please don’t shoot me!”

“Whoa, Bobby put that away!” Dean said stepping into his sights. “You can’t shoot him.”

“Move!” Bobby ordered.

There was a rustling sound and Castiel’s voice cut through the room. “Bobby, put that gun down. This man is to be protected.”

“Why?” Bobby asked.

“He's a Prophet of the Lord.”

Bobby lowered the gun to the floor. “He’s a what?”

“A prophet,” Castiel said serenely. “It's an honor to meet you, Chuck. I... admire your work.

“This is the guy who decides our fate?” Dean asked doubtfully.

“He isn't deciding anything. He's a mouthpiece—a conduit for the inspired word.” Castiel picked up a book from the table and flipped through the pages looking supremely unconcerned.

“The word? The word of God? What, like the _new_ new testament?”

“One day, these books will be known as the Winchester gospel.”

“You got to be kidding me,” Bobby said incredulously.

“I am not kidding you.”

“If you'd both please excuse me one minute.” Chuck made for the stairs, hugging a bottle of whiskey to his chest.

“Wait one minute,” Bobby said. He reached out to catch his arm but Castiel appeared there, blocking him.

“You do not want to hinder the prophet,” Castiel said.

“I get that he’s like your poster child for the divine, but he’s got information we need.”

“I am speaking for your own safety, Bobby. Chuck is protected. If anything threatens a prophet, anything at all, an archangel will appear to destroy that threat. Archangels are fierce. They're absolute. They're heaven's most terrifying weapon. You are lucky to be alive after threatening him.”

Bobby huffed out a breath.

“Okay,” Dean said calmly. “No pissing off the archangel. Chuck, _please_ stay and explain. Why is Lilith coming for me?”

“She wants to make a deal,” Chuck said.

“For Sammy?” Dean asked hopefully.

“Dean, you can’t—“ Bobby began but Dean waved him into silence.

Chuck shook his head apologetically. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen that part. I only know she will come to you…” He checked his watch. “In an hour at the motel.”

Dean made for the door but Bobby blocked him. “Dean, you can’t go. It’s Lilith, she could kill you.”

“Or she could save me.” Dean pushed past Bobby and made his way to the door. Bobby grabbed for his arm but he yanked out of his grip.

“I’m not letting you throw your life away,” Bobby said harshly.

“If it saves Sam, it’s not thrown away. It’s sacrificed.” Dean pulled the door open and made his way out to the porch.

As the door clicked closed behind him, he heard Bobby say, “You better have a plan, Castiel, because I’m not losing him too.”

xXx

Dean sat on the edge of the motel bed, his palms on his knees, waiting. He was filled with a twisted kind of excitement. He wanted Lilith here so he could find out what she wanted already. He hoped with all his heart that she was coming to offer Sam’s life and freedom, but part of him questioned it. What could he possibly have to offer in return? It wasn’t as if he was doing a bang up job protecting the seals, or maybe he was. He could be a big enough inconvenience for her to want him to stand down. If it came to a choice between Sam and the world… He honestly didn’t know which he’d choose. For himself he would choose Sam, but he had to imagine Sam’s choice too. Sam wouldn’t want a single person to suffer to give him freedom, let alone six billion. But could he be selfless? Could he leave Sam in the pit for the sake of the world?

He got to his feet and began to pace, too anxious to stay still. He checked his watch. He had only five minutes before Lilith was supposed to arrive. Bobby hadn’t returned to the motel since Dean had left him at Chuck’s. He hoped that meant Bobby had realized there was nothing to be done to prevent it, and therefore had gone somewhere to drown his sorrows and frustration in liquor. That was what he wanted, to be left in peace to do this. There was no need to risk Bobby’s life, too.

The minutes ticked by and he paced, and then, as the hands on the clock reached eight o’clock, there was a knock at the door. He eased it open, prepared for his fate, but there was no one there.

Someone cleared their throat behind him and he turned. A woman with wavy blonde hair and deep grey eyes was standing there, wearing a simple white dress. She was beautiful in an alluring way, but the sight of her turned Dean’s stomach.

“Nice meat suit,” he said.

She smoothed the folds of her dress. “I thought it would appeal to your more base instincts.”

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, the picture of nonchalance. “What do you want?”

“Your head on a stick.”

Dean shrugged. He wasn’t surprised that she had come for his death, but it wouldn’t be so simple as to be a swift execution. Chuck had said she was here to make a deal, and Dean believed him. He hadn’t been wrong about anything else.

“And I here I was thinking you were here to make a deal,” Dean said.

Her smooth brow furrowed. “How do you know that?” It was obvious that she hadn’t expected Dean to know about this, which meant she didn’t know about Chuck. Dean wasn’t sure if he was pleased or disappointed. If she knew about Chuck she would surely target him which meant an archangel coming down to smite her—which was all to the good as far as Dean was concerned—but it would place Chuck at risk, and Dean kinda liked the man.

“I have my sources,” he said easily. “So, what’s the deal?”

She closed her eyes and when they opened, they were a pure white. It was eerie but Dean showed none of his discomfort. “I already told you. I want your head on a stick.”

“And what do I get in return?” Dean asked, his heart rate increasing with his nerves.

She laughed softly. “I can see it in your eyes, Dean. You think I’m here to offer up little Sammy again.”

Dean swallowed thickly, disappointment coursing through him. “And you’re not?”

“I’m afraid not. Sammy is gone now; he has been replaced by something pure and black-eyed.”

“I don’t believe you,” Dean lied.

“Oh but you do. I can see it in your eyes, and I know you can see it in mine. The Sam you knew and loved is gone. He is mine now. He broke, you see. It was no surprise. I rode him so hard. You should have heard his screams. Every one of them was a plea to you. He screamed your name as I ripped and tore into him. And then he came off the rack, and from there it was easy. He was already so dark at his core it merely took a handful of souls for him to forget his inhibitions and enjoy it. It was only a matter of time before his soul turned black as coal.”

Dean shook his head. “No!” Though he tried not to let it, it came out as a moan. He couldn’t hear these things. He couldn’t think of his brother screaming for him, knowing he could never come.

She laughed again. “Yes, Dean. He’s is one of us now. Which brings me to the deal I have on offer. It’s a one off. One time only gig.”

“What can you possibly offer me now?”

“The world. I'm offering to stand down. From the seals, the apocalypse... all of it.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because it's the truth. You can end it, Dean. Right here, right now. I'll stop breaking seals. Lucifer keeps rotting in his cage. All you have to do is agree to my terms.”

“Why would you back down? Why now?”

“Turns out, I don't survive this war. Killed off, right before the good part starts. I want it to go back to the way it was. Before I had angels to deal with twenty-four/seven. The good old days, when it was all baby blood all the time. And all I want in return is your life.”

“You really think I'm stupid enough to fall for this?

“I make a deal, I have to follow through. Those are the rules, and you know it. Are you really so arrogant that you would put your life before the lives of six billion innocent people?”

“No,” Dean said. “I’m not.”

She leered at him. “The thing is, a deal with me takes more than a kiss. A lot more.” She sat on the edge of the bed and patted the space beside her and Dean understood. He was going to have to sleep with her. He could barely look at her without retching, how was he supposed to touch her?

Suddenly, the door burst open and Chuck ran in with his arms above his head. “I am the prophet, Chuck.”

Bobby came in behind him.

“You've got to be joking,” Lilith said. She started towards Chuck.

“Oh, this is no joke,” Bobby said.

Bright, white light began to stream through the window and the room vibrated as if sitting atop an earthquake. A painting on the wall fell on to the bed.

Bobby shouted to make himself heard. “You see, Chuck here's got an archangel on his shoulder. You've got about ten seconds before this room is full of wrath and you're a piece of charcoal. You sure you want to tangle with that?”

Lilith turned to Dean. “Look into the eye of every demon and see if you can see him looking out at you.” That said, she threw back her head and black smoke poured out of her mouth. The woman she had been possessing crumpled to the floor. Bobby dropped to his knees beside the woman and pressed his fingers to her throat while Dean stared at the window the demon had disappeared through, her last words ringing in his head.

xXx

The dental hygienist Lilith had been possessing was alive, but Dean, Bobby and Chuck booked it out of the motel before she could wake up and start asking awkward questions. They dropped Chuck off at his house and got out of town fast.

It was the early hours of the morning by the time they got back to Bobby’s salvage yard, but neither of them felt like sleeping so they cracked open a bottle of whiskey and sat down at the kitchen table to talk. Dean filled Bobby in on what Lilith had offered him, excepting the part of Sam being a demon.

“So a deal, huh?”

Dean nodded. “That's what she said.”

To call the whole thing off – angels, seals, Lucifer rising, the whole nine?

That was the gist of it.” Dean said evasively.

“Huh.” Bobby took a sip of his whiskey and looked at Dean.

“What?”

“You think about taking it?”

Dean huffed a laugh. “Dude, if you and Chuck hadn’t got there when you did, you’d have caught me and Lilith bumping uglys.”

Bobby sputtered. “How’s that?”

“Apparently, to make a deal with her takes more than a kiss.”

Bobby shuddered. “Could you have done that?”

“For the world, I could have done it.”

“Let’s be thankful I arrived when I did then.”

Dean considered. Now the moment had passed, and he could think clearly again, he knew he shouldn’t have accepted the deal. Lilith would have found a way to weasel out of it somehow and all that would have been achieved was Dean’s death. He took a sip of whiskey and nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”

Bobby was silent for a long moment and when he spoke, it was in a quiet, consoling tone. “She didn’t offer to bring Sam back then?”

Dean looked determinedly at the opposite wall. “No, Bobby. She didn’t offer that.”

“Why not?” Bobby asked. “I mean if there’s a sure way for you to do something stupid it’s to bring Sam into it.”  

Dean looked into Bobby’s eyes and he saw the truth there. Bobby either knew about Sam being a demon or he had a rough idea.

“You heard her, Bobby. What Lilith said.”

“Yeah, I heard it. You want to explain it?”

“Not much, not that I think I need to. Sounds like you already knew enough.”

“Is it true? Is Sam back as a…”

“Demon,” Dean finished for him. “I think so, yeah. That’s what Alastair and Lilith said anyway.”

“I thought it took centuries.”

“Me too, but they say Sammy was already part way there with the demon blood.”

“What demon blood?”

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Yellow-Eyes, Azazel, fed Sam his own blood when Sam was a baby. That’s why mom died. She interrupted him.”

“Sam had demon blood in him!” Bobby sounded disgusted.

“It wasn’t his fault,” Dean said defensively. “Not that it matters now anyway. According to them, that’s why he broke so fast. And now he’s back.”

“What are we going to do?” Bobby asked.

“Nothing!” Dean said harshly. “If Sammy’s out there as a demon… Well, it’s better than him being human down there.”

“He could be killing,” Bobby said. “For all we know, he’s Lilith’s new right-hand man.”

Dean got to his feet and paced the room. “What do you expect me to do, hunt him? I can’t do that, Bobby. He’s my brother. Look me in the eye and tell me you could kill him.”

Bobby stared into his eyes for a moment and then looked down at the tabletop. “I can’t.”

“Exactly. Anyway, that's not the point. Sam’s not the one we have to worry about.”

“You’re right,” Bobby said. “We’ve got an apocalypse brewing.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about Lilith.”

“What about her?”

”She's scared. I could see it. Lilith is running. And she’s right to run.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I am going to kill her.”

Dean would stop the seals breaking when he could, but his focus had to be taking Lilith out altogether. She said she wasn’t going to survive the apocalypse, which meant somehow, somewhere, someone had the way to kill her. She had a weakness after all, and Dean was going to find it. He would not only be stopping the apocalypse, he would be avenging his brother.


	20. Chapter 20

It was a warm day, late May, and Dean was sitting on Bobby’s front porch sipping coffee when he heard the phone ring. He checked his pockets and finding his own phone silent he got to his feet and ambled over to the car. He kept Sam’s and his father’s phones in the car in case anyone should call and need their help, but Sam’s hadn’t rung at all and his father’s hadn’t rang since his lockup had been broken into. He flipped through the junk in the glove box and pulled out his father’s phone. “Hello?”

“Is this John?” An uncertain voice said.

“He can't come to the phone. Can I help you?”

“No. I need to talk to John. This is Adam Milligan. He knows me.”

“Well, sorry to be the one to break this to you, pal, but John died more than two years ago.”

There was a soft indrawn breath on the other end of the call. Whoever it was, they were more than a mere acquaintance of John Winchester.

“Who is this?” Dean asked.

The voice spoke clearly and calmly. “I'm his son.”

 _Sammy!_ For a second, a whole glorious second, Dean thought it was Sam on the phone. He almost said the name aloud. But reason caught up with him, bringing him crashing back to earth with a jolt. It wasn’t Sam. He would have recognized the voice. This person, whoever it was, was not his brother, despite what he claimed.

“What do you want with John?” Dean asked in a heavy tone.

“It’s my mom. She’s gone missing, and I thought he might know something. Who are you?”

“Never you mind,” Dean said harshly. “Tell me about your mother.”

“I don’t see why I have to tell you anything,” Adam said.

“Look, buddy, you called for help. I’m offering to help. Now tell me what’s happened.”

Five minutes later, Dean staggered into the kitchen and sank down on a chair, putting his head in his hands.

“What’s happened to you?” Bobby asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Dean swallowed thickly and spoke without raising his head. “Some punk just called me claiming to be my brother.”

Bobby drew in a sharp breath. “Sam?”

Dean shook his head. “No, some kid from Minnesota named Adam. He called Dad’s cell. His mother’s gone missing and he wanted Dad’s help.”

“And what are you going to do?” Bobby asked.

Dean looked up at him. “What do you mean what am I going to do? I’m not doing anything. He’s not my brother. I don’t know what’s going on, but I only have one brother and he’s dead.”

Bobby got to his feet and walked to the counter. He gripped the sides of the sink and bowed over it with his head down. “What if they’re the same person?” he asked quietly.

Dean’s head snapped up. “What do you mean?”

“What if it is Sam?” Bobby turned and looked at him. “What if this is Sam reaching out to you again?”

Dean was confused for a moment, then he understood what Bobby was trying to say. “You mean what if this is the demon Sam?”

Bobby nodded. “What if he remembers parts of his human life? That Ruby character said she remembered her human life. That was why she was supposedly on our side.”

“But she was—“

“An evil bitch,” Bobby said. “I agree. She was up to no good from the start, but my point still stands. What if Sam is back? What if he remembers stuff?”

“Then why would he say he’s some kid called Adam?”

Bobby chewed his lip, deep in thought. “Maybe that’s his meat suit. It could be a trap.”

“Sam wouldn’t trap me!” Dean said indignantly.

“The Sam we knew wouldn’t, no. But if he is back as a demon, there’s no knowing what his end game is. You’re the angels’ man. Maybe he’d be working to take you out.”

Dean’s mind reeled. He couldn’t take it all in. The thought that this could be Sam after all was incredible, but he didn’t know what to feel. Part of him was hopeful that Sam was back in some form and the other was scared of the very same thing. He had told Bobby he couldn’t kill Sam, and he meant it, but he couldn’t let some corrupted version of his brother walk around hurting people either. Sam, his Sam, wouldn’t want that. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked.

Bobby scrubbed his hand through his beard. “Okay. Let’s think about this. If it’s Sam, and that’s a big if, what would he want us to do?”

That was an easy answer. Sam would never want to come back as a demon. He would have fought hard to retain his humanity in the pit. For him to have broken and become what he detested was an indicator of just how bad Hell had been for him. He would want Dean to kill him, but Dean couldn’t. He had the weapon but not the will. He couldn’t kill a demon if even a small part of him was his brother. He just couldn’t. But nor could he let him be free to harm others.

“We bring him back here,” he said. “We’ve got the panic room. We could keep him there. He wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone, but we wouldn’t have to… you know.”

Bobby looked thoughtful. “A demon on a leash. Don’t think the angels would think much of that.”

“They can go screw themselves,” Dean said harshly. “Bunch of feathered dicks.”

“Castiel is okay,” Bobby said. “He was the one that came up with the way to save you from Lilith after all.”

Dean nodded his agreement. “Yeah, Cas is as good as they get. But if his orders were to kill Sam, he’d do it.”

“Then how are we going to stop him smiting?” Bobby asked.

Dean shrugged. “No idea but I’ll find a way. I’m not letting them touch Sammy.”

Bobby crossed his arms over his chest. “You need to stop that now. If this phone call came from Sam, it came from a demonic version of himself. He won’t be the Sam you knew. If you go in to it expecting your brother, you’re going to get yourself killed. We need to go into this as a seek and restrain mission.”

“I know, Bobby.”

“Do you?” Bobby stared into his eyes. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

“No, but I’ve got an entire car ride to get ready.”

Dean went out to the Impala and opened the trunk. It was filled with weapons and equipment that would be needed to restrain Sam. He took out a duffel and began systematically emptying everything into it. When the trunk was empty, he got a permanent marker from the kitchen and drew a devil’s trap into the floor of the trunk. He needed something to hold Sam until they got back to the panic room. He didn’t like the idea of trapping his brother like an animal, but this was the only way. Sam wasn’t likely to listen to reasonable argument.

Bobby came out of the house with a duffel in his arms and locked the door behind him. “You ready?” he asked.

Dean nodded. “Minnesota here we come.”

xXx

They sat at a corner table in Cousin Oliver’s diner on Windom’s Main Street, waiting for him to arrive. Dean had set a trap in the form of a glass of holy water on the table. It was a bit conspicuous to have their target smoking and hissing from the mouth in a diner, but Dean figured it was their best shot of proving who he was, not that Dean needed much convincing. He was close to certain this was going to be Sam. It _had_ to be Sam.

“Heads up,” Bobby said, drawing Dean’s attention from thoughts of his brother to the room.

A young man had just walked in. He was young, late-teens early twenties, and he looked familiar. He looked around the room and his eyes came to rest on Dean and Bobby.

“He looks a little like Sam, right?” Dean said in an undertone. “Maybe that’s why he chose the meat suit.

“If you ask me he looks like both of ya.”

Dean was going to ask Bobby what he meant when the man came to stand at the edge of their table.

“Um, is one of you Dean?”

Dean looked into his eyes, just as Lilith had instructed him to, and searched for a sign of Sam. His eyes were almost the same color as Sam’s had been, but there was no recognition in them. He was either a skilled actor or he didn’t remember Dean the way he’d hoped he would.

Bobby nudged his rubs with an elbow, making Dean realize he had been silent too long. “I’m Dean. Take a seat.”

The man sat and smiled. “So, how’d you know my dad?”

“We worked with him,” Bobby said when it became clear Dean wasn’t going to answer.

The waitress came to their table and smiled at them. “The usual, Adam?”

He looked blank for a moment and then he nodded. “Yeah, please.”

“And what can I get you fellas?” she asked.

“We’re good, thanks,” Bobby said.

The waitress gave them a curious look and then turned and walked back to the counter.

Adam picked up the glass of holy water on the table and raised it to his lips. Bobby and Dean watched him keenly, waiting for the moment of reaction, but when he took a sip, nothing happened. He swallowed and set the glass down on the table again.

Dean didn’t know what to think or do. The only demons he’d seen immune to holy water were Azazel and Lilith. There was no way Sam had their clout as a demon, no matter how much demon blood was in his body before his transformation. Which could only mean this wasn’t a demon; it wasn’t Sam. A lump formed in his throat and he swallowed thickly.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, getting to his feet. He made his way to the bathroom at a hurried pace and threw the door open. He braced his hands on a sink and stared into the mirror. His devastation was clear in his expression. He felt sick and he spun on his heel and dashed into a cubicle. His stomach heaved and he lost the coffee he’d drunk that morning.

The door behind him opened and he heard Bobby’s voice. “Dean, you okay?”

Dean wiped his mouth and walked back to the sink. He rinsed his mouth with water and then turned to look at Bobby.

“I’m sorry,” Bobby said softly.

“It’s not Sam.”

Bobby looked sympathetic. “No, it’s not. From what I’ve been able to get out of him, he’s really your brother though. Didn’t know John until about seven years ago when he wrangled the phone number out of his mom. He called John up and, by all accounts, he came running.”

Dean shook his head jerkily and made for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To find out who this is.”

He made his way back to the table and sank down onto the chair. Adam was in the middle of the plate of a plate of pancakes, but he looked up when Dean arrived and his brow furrowed. “You okay, man?”

“Who are you?” Dean asked through gritted teeth. “What are you?”

Adam looked taken aback. “Um, Adam Milligan, a biology major.”

Bobby arrived and sat down, resting a restraining hand on Dean’s arm. “Calm down, Dean.”

“Calm! Bobby, aren’t you hearing him? He thinks he’s my brother.”

“Brother?” Adam looked stunned. “You’re my brother?”

“No,” Dean spat. “I only have one brother and he’s called Sam. I don’t know who you are, but you’re not him.”

“I have brothers!” Adam clearly wasn’t taking in Dean’s murderous look.

“Look, this really isn’t the place to be talking about this,” Bobby said. “Let’s go back to the motel so we can have a little chat in peace.

Dean stood and marched to the door. He didn’t care what Bobby said, he wasn’t going anywhere with this interloper. He had one brother, one dammit, and this wasn’t him. He got out to the car and yanked the door open. Gunning the engine, he looked in the rearview mirror. Bobby and Adam were standing in the doorway of the diner, watching him as he pulled out onto the road, leaving them behind.

xXx

Dean’s disappointment was agonizing. He felt like he’d been physically beaten. That would have been better, a physical beating he could have recovered from. This regret was so much worse. He had believed for a few shining hours that he had part of Sam back, and it was all crap. He threw himself down on the bed and covered his face with his arms. He wondered how much more he could take. Sam had died, Dean survived. Sam was in Hell, but Dean was coping, He’d discovered books that showed him just how many times he’d failed Sam, and he dealt with it. But now… After believing he had Sam back in some form, he’d lost him again. Was this the thing that would break him?

He lay, unmoving for he didn’t know how long, lost in his thoughts, until the door swinging open made him look up. Bobby came into the room, looking furious. “Thanks for making me walk.”

Dean sat up and shrugged. “It couldn’t be more than a mile.”

“I had to see Adam home first, and that was a crap-storm and a half.”

“What’s the problem?”

“The _problem_ is that the kid’s mother is missing and he just found out he has two brothers he never knew about. That’s enough for anyone to wrap their mind around, but it gets worse when his brother marches away leaving him standing with more questions than it’s fair to expect anyone to answer. He thinks you hate him.”

“I don’t feel anything about him,” Dean said in a tired voice. “He’s not my brother. He’s nothing to me.”

“Well, he’s something to your father. There are pictures of them together in the house.”

“Doesn’t mean anything,” Dean said doggedly.

Bobby sighed. “Fine, you think what you want, but what you can’t deny is that he needs help. His mother’s missing and I found stuff there that makes it look like she’s dead. There was a lot of blood under a grate in the bedroom. This damn thing screams supernatural fugly. Now, he’s called the cops and once he’s dealt with them, he’s going to be coming over here.”

Dean rubbed a hand over his face. “Call Rufus, Bobby. Get him to help.”

“No,” Bobby said firmly. “You and I are going to do this case together, we’re going to work out what happened to that poor boy’s mother, and we’re going to take it out.”

“Why?” Dean asked. “Why is this our problem?”

“Because we’re hunters, and we help people, even if we’re in the middle of a snit fit.”

“A snit fit!” Dean jumped to his feet and stalked toward Bobby. “You really think that’s the word for this.”

“I get that you’re disappointed,” Bobby said calmly. “Hell, I am too, but we’ve got to think of Sam here.”

“I was thinking of Sam. Why do you think I’m here? I came here to save him.”

“But it wasn’t Sam. It was your other, defenseless, brother. Now if Sam, our Sam, was here, what would he be doing?”

Dean felt like the wind had been kicked out of him. He knew exactly what Sam would be doing if he found out that he had another brother. He’d be taking care of Adam, bringing him into the family. Sam was a soppy kid for a sob story, and Adam’s definitely qualified. But could Dean bear it, being around Adam when he wished more than anything that he had never met him?

“Do it for Sam,” Bobby said gently.

Dean nodded reluctantly. “Okay. But I’m only doing it for Sam. I don’t care about this kid. He’s not my family.”

xXx

When Adam arrived an hour later, Dean had just about convinced himself that he was able to handle it. That was until he opened the door and saw Adam with his red-rimmed eyes that looked so much like Sam’s. He drew a deep breath and stood back to let him in.

Adam dropped his duffel down onto the bed and glared at Bobby. “Okay, who the hell are you. My house is a crime scene, my mom's probably dead, and you… Well, you tell me to call the cops, but you got to bail before they show? Cops didn't know where to look for my mom, Bobby, but you did. So, who are you really?”

“This one’s all on you,” Dean said to Bobby. “You wanted to bring the new puppy home. Now you deal with it.”

“We’re hunters,” Bobby said.

“You mean you hunt, like deer and turkeys?”

“No, more like vampires, demons, werewolves and ghosts. Things you have nightmares about, they’re all real and me and Bobby hunt them.”

“Is that what got my mom?” he asked. “A vampire or a demon?”

Dean shrugged nonchalantly. “No idea. We’ll find out though.”

“And Dad. Was he a hunter too?”

“He was,” Bobby said. “One of the best.”

“What killed him?”

“A demon,” Dean said quietly.

“Did you kill it?”

Dean nodded. “I did.”

“And when you find what killed my mom, will you kill it?”

“We sure will,” Bobby said.

Adam shook his head. “No, when you find it, I want to kill it.”

Bobby looked like he wanted to argue, but Dean nodded. He understood the desire for revenge. That was why he’d killed Yellow-Eyes. That was why Sam had killed the crossroads demon that Dean had dealt with. And that was why he was going to kill Lilith at any cost. No matter his personal feelings on Adam, he couldn’t deny that he had the right to take the killing shot.

“I guess we better find out what we’re hunting for then,” Bobby said, taking a laptop out of his bag and setting it down on the table.

Dean sat back down and waited to hear what Bobby could find. Adam stood awkwardly for a moment and then took a seat opposite Dean. “I brought some stuff I thought you might want to see,” he said nervously.

Dean looked up. “Yeah?”

Adam rooted through his bag and pulled out two framed photos. Dean took them and stared into the faces. One was a woman he guessed was Adam’s mother and the other was his father. They had their arms around each other and they looked happy; his father looked happy, a rarity in the man Dean had known following his mother’s death. He looked at the other picture and saw his father again, this time posed with Adam. They were both wearing baseball caps and smiling widely into the camera.

“That one’s was from my fourteenth birthday,” Adam said. “We went to a ball game.”

“He took you to a ball game?” Dean said in an incredulous voice.

“Yeah. What'd Dad do with you on your birthday?”

Dean didn’t answer. He was lost in thought. He might have had memories like that he shared with his father, but they were all from before his mother was killed. John Winchester had never done anything that could be called father/son bonding with either Sam or Dean that wasn’t directly involved in hunting. They’d trained with weapons and worked out under their father’s eye, but always with hunting in mind. Dean didn’t care for himself, as long as he could remember he’d been as devoted to the hunting life as his father was, but Sam… Sam would have given anything for memories like that of his father. Why was it John had been able to put away the hunter for Adam but not Sam? Didn’t he realize what it would have meant to him?

“Got something,” Bobby said, turning the laptop. “John was here in January, Nineteen-ninety. There was a case of dead bodies disappearing.”

Dean peered at the picture accompanying the article. His father was just visible at the back of a crowd shot. “Huh, he was really here.”

Bobby nodded. “And it looks like whatever was taking the bodies is back. Last month, three bodies from the local cemetery went missing. And there’s living people missing too. Kate Milligan and someone called Joe Barton.”

“Know anything about this Barton guy, Adam?” Dean asked.

Adam shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

Bobby got to his feet. “Looks like it’s time to go play look-see. I’ll go poke around town a bit, see if I can find anything that might give us a hint of what’s snatching the bodies. You boys want to come?”

Dean shook his head. “No. I’ll stick here and keep an eye on Adam.”

It wasn’t that Dean cared; it was that his mother had already been targeted and he didn’t want the kid to be the next victim. Bobby didn’t seem to understand that, as he nodded approvingly as he headed out of the door.

Dean grabbed _Bloodlust_ from his duffel and settled down to read with a shotgun on his lap.

Adam fidgeted for a while, toying with his duffel and rubbing his hands on his knees. Dean did his best to ignore him, but when he started talking, it became impossible.

“Dean, Bobby told me I had another brother, called Sam, but he died.”

Dean grunted an acknowledgment.

“How’d he die?”

“Demon,” Dean said curtly.

“What was he like?”

Dean sighed. “No offence, Adam, but I’m not swapping sweet family stories with you.” He pulled a book out of his duffel and tossed it to Adam. “Read this.”

Adam picked up _Supernatural,_ the first book in the series, and read the back cover. “This says Sam and Dean. Is this about you?”

Dean nodded. “Long story, but yeah. You want to know about Sam, it’s all in there.”

Looking like he’d been given a gift beyond imagining, Adam opened the book and settled down to read.

They had been sitting in silence for an hour, both absorbed in the books when Dean’s phone rang.

“Is Adam with you?” Bobby asked as soon as Dean connected the call.

“Yeah, he’s here. What’s wrong?”

“Joe Barton was a cop. He worked with your daddy on the case back in the day. I think that’s the connection with the victims. He took out John’s partner, his girl, and now I think he’s coming for the kid.”

“I’m armed,” Dean said.

“I still don’t know what we’re dealing with, but I think you should get somewhere a little easier to defend. The cops are done with Adam’s place now, go there and seal all the vents. Lay down salt and wait for me. I’m going to the cemetery to see if there’s anything that will narrow down the list of suspects.”

“You be careful,” Dean said.

“You too. Keep Adam safe.”

Bobby ended the call and Dean snatched up his shotgun. “We’ve got to go back to your mom’s place. Looks like you’re a target, and it’s easier to defend you there.”

Adam snatched up his duffel and the book and followed Dean outside. Dean had forgotten Bobby had taken the Impala with him, and he wasn’t amused when he realized he was going to have to ride in Adam’s craptastic truck. One thing he wasn’t going to do was ride shotgun. He snatched the keys out of Adam’s hands and climbed in. “You can navigate,” he said.

Adam directed him to his mother’s house and they pulled up outside. There were no cops in sight, but the front door still had police tape crossed over it. Adam unlocked the door and stepped under the tape. Dean followed him in and rooted in his duffel for a can of salt. “I’m going to block the vents. You lay this down in a thick line at every door and window. We don’t know what we’re going up against yet, so we’ve got to be careful.”

Adam took the can of salt and looked at it. “Salt, seriously?”

“I know it doesn’t seem like much of a weapon, but trust me it works,” Dean said.

Adam nodded thoughtfully. “Guess I’ll have to test that.” He cracked Dean over the temple with the can of salt. Dean crumpled to the ground as consciousness deserted him.

Through the fog, he heard another, female, voice speak. “How about that. It is a weapon after all.”

xXx

The first thing Dean was aware of was a pounding pain in his head. He heard voices muttering above him and he tried to make sense of his surroundings. Adam had knocked him out. There had been someone else there, a woman. Bobby had been right, it was a trap for Dean, it just wasn’t Sam at the helm of it.

He felt something around his bare wrists, and he guessed he was tied down. Still feigning unconsciousness, he shifted his feet slightly, to see if they were restrained too. They were.

“You can stop pretending, Dean,” Adam said. “We know you’re awake.”

Dean opened his eyes and looked up into Adam’s face. It was changed from the scared kid he had been before. The eyes that were so much like Sam’s were narrowed with hatred as he looked down at Dean.

“So, what’s the deal?” Dean asked with as much nonchalance as he could muster under the circumstances. “What are you?”

“People,” the woman said, stepping into his sight line. It was Kate Milligan, or at least it looked like her. He doubted very much she was human. “At least that’s what _we_ believe we are. Your father had other ideas. He thought our kind were monsters, so he killed our father, just for feeding from the dead.”

“Ghouls,” Dean said in a disgusted tone.

“I find that term racist,” Kate said. “We do what we need to survive. We don’t hurt anyone. At least we didn’t before now. Now, we are avenging our father. And you are the focus of our revenge.”

“So, Adam?”

“Dead,” The ghoul Adam said. “His mother too. We're gonna feed on you nice and slow—like we did with Adam.”

“Oh, and, by the way,” Kate’ said. “He really was your brother by the way. He was still alive when we took our first bites. He was a screamer.

Dean struggled against his restraints, fighting to get free.

Kate came back into his view and she was wielding a knife. She rested it against the crook of his elbow and pressed down, puncturing the skin. Dean felt the blood well in the wound. She bowed her head and licked at his arm, sucking down the blood. Dean’s stomach rolled with nausea.

She raised her head. “Mmm, that’s good.”

Adam cut into his other arms and began to lap at the wound. Dean was stuck there, unable to do a thing to stop them.

“That’s enough,” Kate chided and Adam raised his head reluctantly. “We need to drain him fast before that old man gets back.”

Bobby! Dean thought. He was at least still alive. Dean hoped with everything he had that Bobby would know enough to come here.

Kate drew the knife down Dean’s arm, parting the skin and letting the blood flow freely. Adam took the knife and was about to cut into Dean’s other arm when there was a crashing sound and the blast of a shotgun. Dean raised his head and saw Bobby standing in the doorway. Adam had taken the shot and he was slumped on the floor.

Kate snarled in fury and moved towards Bobby.

“They’re ghouls, Bobby!” Dean shouted.

Bobby checked his aim just in time. Bringing it up to her head, he pulled the trigger and her head disappeared in a mess of blood and brain matter.

Bobby came to Dean's side and cut through the restraints with a knife. He helped Dean to sit up and was draping a cloth over Dean’s bleeding arm when Adam came back to life. He tackled Bobby to the floor.

Dean leapt into action. He grabbed up a heavy-looking metal ornament from the sideboard and cracked Adam across the head. He felt skull give way beneath him, but Adam lived still. Dean shoved him to the ground and pinned him down with his knees on his shoulders.

Again and again, he brought the metal down onto Adam’s head, pounding into bone and flesh. “You are not my brother!” he shouted with each blow. “You are _not_ my brother!”

He had reduced the ghoul’s head to mush when he felt a hand rest on his shoulder.

“It’s over, Dean. He’s gone.”

xXx

Dean poured the last of the gasoline down on the pyre and pulled a matchbook from his pocket.

“You sure about this?” Bobby asked.

Dean nodded. “He died like a hunter. He deserves to go out like one.”

He lit the match and dropped it down onto the pyre. Flames whooshed up, licking over the sheets wrapping Adam’s corpse.

Bobby had told him the story of how he’d found Adam’s corpse in the mausoleum, and that he’d been dead for days, but Dean still felt guilty for not protecting Adam. He had failed both his brothers. It seemed to be his lot in life to fail his family.

He couldn’t help but think, as he watched Adam’s body go up in flames, that his father had failed them too. He hadn’t particularly wanted to know Adam when he thought he was alive, but Sam would have. He would have embraced Adam into their lives. Why hadn’t John given them the chance?

“It wasn’t your fault,” Bobby said.

“You a mind reader now, Bobby?”

“No, I just know that expression. Adam was dead before you even knew he existed. You couldn’t have saved him.”

“Still feels like a failure. _Another_ failure.”

“You didn’t fail Sam either. Hell, you gave your life to save him.”

Dean nodded but he didn’t believe. He had failed his brothers, both of them, but he wouldn’t again.

He couldn’t bring them back, either of them, but he could avenge them. The ghouls were dead, Adam and his mother were avenged. Next would be Lilith. She would die, and perhaps, Dean would finally be able to rest.


	21. Chapter 21

**_Chapter Twenty-One_ **

 

“Tell me,” Dean said through gritted teeth.

“I don’t know!” the demon wailed. “I’ve never even met her.”

Dean stepped away from the bound demon and wiped a bloody hand across his brow. He had been interrogating the demon for the six hours and he was starting to realize that this one had no more answers than all those that had come before. He had been working for weeks, searching for the right demon, but to no avail. None of them had the answers he needed.

He had become what he had fought for against for three decades of Hell for: a torturer. He cut and sliced and burned the demons, asking the same questions of each of them. What was Lilith’s weakness? He knew she had to have one. When he’d seen her, she’d been running scared. She had said she wasn’t going to survive the apocalypse which meant somewhere someone had the means to kill her. He just needed to know who or what it was so he could get the job done.

He moved forward again and twisted the knife in the demon’s leg, making it howl with pain. It was enough to hurt but not kill. Dean didn’t want to kill, he needed them alive. The demon was a heavy-set male this time, with dark skin and a shaved head. He reminded Dean a little of Uriel, and that made it a little easier for Dean to vent his frustrations on him. He hadn’t seen Uriel, or Castiel for that matter, since he’d been put up against Alastair. He guessed they were busy trying to work out what was killing their buddies, if they weren’t dead themselves. He could happily dance around Uriel’s pyre, but he had developed a certain fondness for Castiel. The only angel he had contact with now was Anna, and that was a stilted arrangement.

“She’s your leader, right?” Dean said. “You telling me you’ve never been called into the principal’s office?”

“She doesn’t deal with the likes of us,” the demon said. “Our orders come from Crowley.”

Dean upended a flask of holy water over its head and the skin bubbled and hissed. The demon cried out but Dean ignored its pleas. He had become immune to them after the first few demons. All that mattered was getting the answers he needed.

“Please!” the demon rasped.

Dean took a can of salt and gripped the demon’s jaw, forcing it open. He tipped the salt into the demon’s mouth, making him gag and choke.

He stepped back and watched as the demon spat the salt onto the floor. “You’re going to kill me!” it said.

“Nah,” Dean said laconically. “I won’t kill the poor bastard you’re riding. I’ll only hurt you enough to make you talk.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say!”

“I want to know why Lilith’s running scared.”

“You think I’d know that?” The demon asked incredulously. “I’m a bottom feeder compared to her. They don’t tell us anything. Only those personally picked out to help with the seals get near her.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re just a grunt,” Dean said. “No one tells you anything.”

“It’s the truth.”

Dean pulled the knife out of its leg and wiped the blade on a cloth. “You’ve got to take care of a tool like this,” he said conversationally. “Rust can ruin a good blade.”

The demon looked confused. “Yeah, okay.”

“And it dulls the point, you see,” he continued. “I need this nice and sharp for when I take it and drive it through your throat.”

“You said you wouldn’t kill me.”

Dean grinned. “I’m fickle. I can change my mind, can’t I?”

He stepped forward and placed the blade to the demon’s throat.

“I don’t know anything!” the demon wailed. “I swear it.”

Dean looked into its onyx black eyes and sighed. The demon was either a master actor or it really didn’t know anything.

He stepped back and raised his eyes heavenward. “Anna, you got a minute.”

A second later, Anna appeared beside him. “Anything?” she asked.

Dean shook his head. “Not this time.”

She sighed and pushed back her hair. “Okay. I’ll take care of it.” With a snap of her fingers, the ropes binding the demon to the chair fell away. The demon had a split second to try and run but Anna was already there. She grabbed its arm and they disappeared.

Dean put down the knife on the table of tools and made his way out of the panic room and up to the house. Bobby was waiting for him, leaning against the counter.

“You done?” he asked.

“For now,” Dean said darkly. “Anna will bring me another.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Bobby muttered.

Dean rounded on him. “You got a better idea?”

Bobby sighed heavily. “No, but I don’t like this. You need to take a break. What you’re doing down there, it’s not easy, and if you let it, it will define you.”

“You’re worried about me going darkside? Me?”

“I’m not thinking anything you’re not secretly thinking yourself. You have to tap into something dark to do what you’re doing. You fought hard against doing it to Alastair, but now you’re…” He shrugged. “You’re just a little too good at it, Dean.”

“Alastair’s most promising, student,” Dean muttered and then spoke up for Bobby’s benefit. “I’m still me, Bobby.”

“I know that,” Bobby said. “It’s just… Remember how scared you were of Sam using his powers when Ruby was damn near begging him to do it? That’s how I feel now.”

Dean didn’t like the comparison. Sam’s powers had been dark, a gift from Azazel. He had no business using them, especially when Castiel showed him how he was supposed to have fuelled those powers. No. he was right to tell Sam to steer clear. What he was doing to the demons was dark, and he’d learned it in the darkest place imaginable, Hell, but he didn’t need to corrupt himself to do it. He was in control.

“I’m just doing the job the only way I know how,” he said. “Lilith is cracking the seals and she’s got to be stopped.”

“Can’t argue with you there,” Bobby admitted. “Rufus called. Another two seals have been broken. A fishing crew of fifteen in Alaska have gone blind with no medical explanation, and a teacher in New York just got taken out after killing exactly sixty-six students. This is just the last couple of days.”

Dean sucked in a breath between his teeth. “There can’t be many more seals to break.”

Bobby ran a hand through his beard. “I know it.”

“Where are the angels in all this?” Dean asked. “They’re supposed to be protecting them. I’m supposed to be their one great hope and yet I’ve not seen them for weeks now. This is all screwed to hell!”

Bobby moved to the fridge and pulled out two bottles of beer. He handed one to Dean and then sat at the kitchen table, resting his chin in his hand.

Dean sat opposite. “If we could just find the right demon, I know I could get the answers. All the ones Anna’s bringing me are foot soldiers, cannon fodder; I need someone close to Lilith.”

“The only one we know that’s close to Lilith is that Crowley guy, and good luck finding him.”

Suddenly, Dean jumped to his feet, knocking the chair back to the floor. “Ruby!” he shouted.

“What about her?” Bobby asked. “I thought we agreed that she’s no good.”

“Exactly,” Dean said cryptically. “She was playing at being good for Sammy’s benefit. From what Cas showed me, she was trying to get Sam to use his powers, she tried to feed him the blood. We both agree that’s a point against her in the good guy books, so what was her angle? And how’d she get out of Hell so fast? It took Meg months to get free, but Ruby couldn’t have been there more than two, as I was gone three and Sam spent one with Ellen and Jo.”

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying she’s team Lilith. She’s got to be. How else would she have got out so fast unless they wanted her out?”

“Okay,” Bobby said, and Dean saw the understanding dawn in his eyes. “We’ve got to talk to Ruby.”

“We need to find her,” Dean said. “That ritual you used to trace Lilith in Indiana.”

Bobby got to his feet, nodding. “No need for that. We’ve got that summoning ritual Sam used to call her last time. All we need is a name.”

Dean exhaled in a rush. It seemed too good to be true. If he could just get hold of Ruby, he could make her talk; he knew it. She had never seemed all that strong in their dealings before, and Dean had learned a bunch of tricks in the last few weeks. He knew what pressure to exact and just where to do it for maximum effect.

Bobby rooted through the kitchen cabinets, gathering herbs and other ingredients. “Grab that silver bowl,” he instructed.

“It looks like a soup tureen,” Dean noted.

“It’ll do the job. And I need seven candles outta the drawer.”

Ten minutes later, Bobby was standing in the panic room with the bowl full of herbs surrounded by seven lit candles set out on a table in front of him. Dean had prepared the ropes to bind Ruby to the chair in the devil’s trap painted into the center of the room’s floor. He had a table full of tools ready to get to work on her; all that was needed was the demon in question.

“You ready for this?” Bobby asked.

Dean nodded. “More than ready.”

Bobby drew a knife over his palm and blood welled in the wound. He held it over the bowl and the blood dripped down over the herbs. He chanted something in Latin that Dean didn’t understand and then dropped a lit match into the bowl. Flames roared up and Bobby stepped back. Dean closed his eyes against the bright light, and when he opened them, Ruby was standing in the center of the devil’s trap.

She was in the same meat suit she had been in when Dean saw her last, when she’d tried to dose Sam with blood: a pretty, petite brunette, with deep brown eyes. Her full lips curved into a smile as she looked around the room. “You’ve redecorated, Bobby. I like it.”

Dean surged forward, ready to wrangle her into the chair, but she held up a hand and perched on the chair of her own volition. “You’re not going to need your tools of trade here, Dean,” she said sweetly. “I came because I want to talk.”

“You _want_ to talk?” Bobby asked doubtfully.

She leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs. “Of course I want to talk. I’d have been here much sooner if those feathered pests hadn’t been around. I am here to help, after all.”

Dean scoffed.”Yeah, like you tried to help Sam, trying to get him to suck down the blood.”

“I was trying to boost his powers,” Ruby said blandly. “Anyway, how do you know about that?”

“Those feathered pests you mentioned. One of them took me on a trip down memory lane.”

She nodded. “Should have known. Never mind, Sam’s gone now and I am here. Still fighting for Team Winchester. How can I help?”

“How do I kill Lilith?” Dean asked.

“You?” She threw back her head and laughed. “This is too good. You think you can kill Lilith. You!”

“I know something can,” Dean said doggedly. Ignoring her laughter. “She told me she doesn’t survive the apocalypse, so there’s something out there that can kill her. I want to know what.”

“It’s not a what, simpleton, it’s a who. And he is far beyond your reach.”

“Who is it?” Dean asked.

She looked from Dean to Bobby’s blank faces with an expression of utmost amusement. “Sam, of course.”

Dean took an involuntary step back. Sam, his brother, was the one that could kill Lilith. But Sam was gone. Did that mean any chance of killing Lilith was gone too?

“It was the blood,” Ruby said happily. “That was what he needed to give his powers a boost, but he got all precious about it. Threw me out on my ass. I waited, thinking he’d come to me when he saw reason, but,” she sighed, “I underestimated him. I underestimated his guilt over killing you. Before I could get through to him, the damn fool made that deal and screwed us all to hell.”

“You telling me my brother is our only hope?”

She nodded. “He was the only person with the power to kill Lilith. The powers Azazel gave him would have been enough to end her.”

“What are we supposed to do?” Dean wasn’t sure if he trusted Ruby or not, despite the part she was playing, but she _seemed_ to be on their side, for now at least. He had to ask.

“You do nothing,” Ruby said. “Nothing but wait for the inevitable end. There are only two seals left to go now, and Lilith is cracking on with them.“ She smiled. “Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.”

Dean bowed his head and let the disappointment wash over him. Sam was their weapon and he was gone.

“Or you could use this,” a voice said.

Suddenly, a harsh crack cut through the room. Dean looked from the doorway to . Ruby as his mind tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Ruby was slumped in the chair. There was a small, neat hole in her temple and yellow energy was crackling around the wound. In the doorway stood Crowley, the demon that had refused to deal with Dean months ago. The self-proclaimed King of the Crossroads. In his hand was a very familiar gun.

“That’s the colt,” Bobby said stupidly.

“Observant, aren’t you,” Crowley said dryly. He held up the gun as if appraising it. “Now, who wants to make a deal?”

Dean’s mind was reeling. The colt! The weapon that was said to kill anything. Why had he never thought of it before? In all his sessions with the demons, not once had any of them mentioned the colt. Why not? Had they been that scared of Lilith or did they know it wouldn’t work?

“Fancy a chat?” Crowley asked, turning away from them and walking up the stairs.

After exchanging a stunned look, Dean and Bobby raced after him. They caught up with him in the library. He was looking over the books on the shelves, running a finger over the dusty spines. He picked up a half-empty bottle of whiskey from the desk and uncapped it. He sniffed at the contents and grimaced. “You need to invest in some decent liquor,” he said. “That stuff will rot your liver.”

Bobby crossed his arms in front of his chest, frowning.

“You said something about a deal,” Dean said hopefully.

“I did, and before you ask, no. I can’t bring little Sammy back. According to my sources, he’s already topside anyway.”

Dean nodded calmly. He had expected to hear as much. “What can you offer us then?”

“The colt,” Crowley said. “And it’s a onetime, never to be repeated, end of season sale. I will give you the colt and all you have to do is—“

“Give up our soul,” Bobby said scathingly. “Thanks but no thanks.”

“Hold up a second, Bobby,” Dean said.

Bobby rounded on him. “I’m not letting you do it, Dean. Not again. I couldn’t stop you last time, and I couldn’t stop your brother, but I’m damned if I’m going to let you do it again. Not this time.” He was breathing heavily by the end.

“It’s the world, Bobby,” Dean said. “This is the whole world on the scales. None of our lives are worth more than that.”

Bobby opened his mouth to argue but Crowley spoke over him. “It does to him, blah blah blah. Mind if I interrupt this touching moment to fill you in on a couple of things? First off, I don’t want your soul. I don’t want anyone’s soul. All I want is for you to take this gun and empty it into Lilith’s face.”

“And why would you want that?” Bobby asked. “She’s your boss, isn’t she?”

“Exactly,” Crowley said. “She’s my boss, and she’s the boss, quite literally, from hell. I used to have a good life, making deals and taking souls. I was happy. Then Lilith comes along with her big plan for the end of the world and I became her whipping boy. If I’m not hooking her up with baby blood I’m dealing with her demons, demanding this and taking that. I want her dead. You don’t even have to kiss me. I’ll take a handshake deal.”

“And how do we know this isn’t a trap?” Dean asked.

“You don’t,” Crowley said. “You just have to trust me.”

“Why do you want this so bad?” Bobby asked suspiciously.

Crowley sighed. “Let me tell you a little story about a demon named Azazel. He had big plans, a demon army led by a special human. Our boy king. While it was an impressive plan, he managed it alone. Didn’t bother me and I didn’t bother him. Then your boy here killed Azazel, and that got Lilith kinda ticked off, so she starts working to free the big boss to show just how tough she is. When she’s gone… Someone will have to take over.”

“And you want to be that person,” Bobby finished for him.

“Can’t fault me for having a bit of ambition, can you?” Crowley held up his hands. “Okay, I want the corner office, but that doesn’t mean I'm not offering you a good deal. You take care of Lilith and you can rest safe in your beds knowing the world isn’t ending. With me in control, it will go back to the good old days to when we could all follow our natures. My demons take out a few humans, you hunters take out a few demons. It’s a system of checks and balances.”

Dean had to admit it sounded good. Lilith would be killed, the world would be saved. The angels could go back to flapping around in heaven and leave the rest of the world alone. The only thing missing would be Sam, but according to the demons, Sam was already out of Hell.

Dean nodded and stepped forward. “Okay. I’ll deal.”

“Dean!” Bobby said angrily. “You can’t do this.”

Dean ignored Bobby completely and reached out a hand to Crowley. “You give me the colt and I’ll kill Lilith.”

“You mean it?” Crowley asked. “Because you break a deal with me and there’ll be hell to pay, and you know I mean that literally.”

“I mean it.”

Crowley’s fingers curled around Dean and he pumped their hands up and down twice. “Then, Mr. Winchester, we have a deal.”


	22. Chapter 22

Dean looked at the gun in his hand and ran a finger over the intricate engraving on the barrel. This was the answer at last. Weeks of interrogating demons had finally paid off. His brother would be avenged.

Before he left, Crowley had given him a leather case of bullets, too. Whoever claimed the colt after Dean was done would have a powerful weapon against monsters. He doubted it would be him though. He was under no disillusions that he would survive this fight. Lilith was the demons’ poster child. If she didn’t manage to kill him, the faithful would. He was at peace with that though. He would be going out with style. Saving the world. There was only one thing more worth a life more than that to him, and he’d already made that sacrifice once.

He could feel Bobby’s eyes on him and he knew an explosion was coming, but he was ready to deal with it with cool, hard logic. Bobby couldn’t claim his one life mattered more than the world.

“I need to know where Lilith is,” he said. “Can you pull out that scribe thing for her? Or would summoning her work?”

Bobby crossed his arms over his chest. “You think I’m going to just find Lilith and let you skip off to your death?”

Dean sighed. “We’re not having this argument, Bobby. If you don’t want to help me, that’s fine. I’ll find someone else that will.”

“We _are_ having this argument,” Bobby said doggedly. “And we will keep having it until I get through that thick skull of yours.”

“Fine! What are you going to say? That I’m going to die if I do this? I already know that. You going to tell me my life matters? It does, but it doesn’t matter more than the world. You think this isn’t what Sam would have wanted, that I’ll be pissing on his grave? You’re right. Sam wouldn’t want this. He would want to do it himself, he was supposed to do this himself, but he can’t because of me. So I am going to take his sacrifice and make it matter. I am going to kill Lilith and I am going to save the world! Tell me that’s wrong.”

Bobby sagged as if the wind had been knocked out of his sails. “You’re going to die, Dean.”

“I know,” Dean said simply. “And I know my soul has to be Hellbound again, but that doesn’t matter. I know that I can survive that as I’ve done it before. I know more this time too; I know I won’t break, no matter what they do to me. I can take their knives and fire and pain because I'll be the man that saved the world.”

“There’s no talking you out of this is there?” Bobby asked.

“No. I’m doing this whether you support me or not.”

Resolve seemed to settle over Bobby. He sighed heavily and stepped forward. Dean thought he was going to hug him and he’d half raised his arms when Bobby struck. He snatched the colt out of Dean’s hand and cracked him over the head with the heavy wooden grip. Dean crumpled, unconscious before he hit the floor.

xXx

When Dean came to, his vision seemed to be full of a rippling devil’s trap. He blinked and the trap came into focus. He was lying on the cot in the panic room. He tried to push himself to a sitting position but he was hampered by a handcuff around his right wrist, tethering him to the side of the cot. He pushed himself to a sitting position with difficulty. Bobby had pulled the cot into the middle of the room, so there was nothing within reach that he could use to free himself. He patted down his pockets but found them empty. Bobby had done a full sweep, taking away his lock picking tools in the process.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Bobby!”

Bobby must have been standing outside the door, waiting, as a second later Dean heard the lock disengage and the door creak open. Bobby stepped in, looking dour.

“You knocked me out,” Dean said accusingly.

Bobby nodded mutely.

“You not going to say sorry?”

“No, I’m not,” he said. “I’m going to tell you a story.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Does it have a happy ending? I’m a sucker for a happily ever after.”

If Bobby was amused, it was buried deep. His expression didn’t even twitch. “No, it ends with death. See, there was once a boy named Sam.”

“I don’t want to hear this, Bobby,” Dean said sternly.

“Hark luck!” Bobby said harshly. “I’ve earned the right to say my piece. See Sam had just lost his brother in the most grisly way imaginable. And what made it worse was that Sam knew his brother had died because of him. I can’t even imagine how guilty he must have felt, which is probably why I gave him what he wanted. I knew I had a job to do, to take care of him because his brother couldn’t anymore. I brought him home and did my best to look after him but he barely lasted a couple days here. I woke up in the middle of the night to hear him moving around. I found him in the kitchen, almost out of the door. See Sam was trying to avoid a scene. He was going to sneak out and leave me for my own protection. He thought he was cursed, killing his brother the way he did.”

“Sam didn’t—“ Dean started bitterly but Bobby cut him off with a shout.

“I’m talking!” He took a deep breath and continued. “I begged Sam to stay, I pleaded and threatened and damn well ordered him to stay, but he wouldn’t have it. He was dead set on going, so I had to watch him drive away, knowing I’d failed his brother, ‘cause I was supposed to take care of him. The next time I saw that boy, I was helping to put him in a coffin. I failed him, and because of that he died.”

Dean shook his head. Bobby had never told him any of this before. He’d been so distracted by dealing with his own grief that he hadn’t realized Bobby had his own share of guilt to deal with, too. “It wasn’t your fault, Bobby. Sam would have made that deal no matter what you did. He would have found a way.”

Bobby shrugged. “Maybe I could have stopped him. We’ll never know for sure. The point is that I failed then, and I’m not going to make the same mistake again. You don’t need to die to finish this. I’ve been thinking, There’s no rule that says a human has to use the colt. I’m thinking we hand over the gun to the angels and let them do the job.”

Dean considered. It wasn’t a bad idea. Lilith would have a harder time taking out an angel that she would him. He was only human after all.

“Have you spoken to them?” he asked.

“I’ve been trying. I’ve been calling them since I got you down here, but they’re not answering right now. They’re probably off dealing with the seals.”

“Or they’re being dicks. It’s an idea, Bobby, but I don’t think it’ll work. Cas told me I'm the only one that can end it. I really think this is the only way it’s going to play out.”

Bobby sighed. “You keep thinking that then. There’s nothing I can do to help you.”

He turned away and made for the door.

“You’re going to keep me in here!” Dean said, stunned.

Bobby didn’t even turn to look at him. He just walked out of the room and bolted the door behind him.

Dean cursed loudly and fluidly. He was royally screwed.

He didn’t know how long he was in the panic room, but eventually the sky through the ceiling vent darkened. He laid down on the cot and let his eyes fall closed. The dream seemed to have been waiting for him as he’d no sooner closed his eyes than he opened them again.

Once again he was sitting on the hood of the Impala with a beer in his hand. It was night, and the sky was strewn with stars. He looked around and through the dim light cast by the moon he saw the mist rolling at the edges of the clearing.  

He had no expectation that Sam would come, and he had resolved himself to wait for whichever angel had decided to make an appearance in his dream, when he saw someone step out of the mist. His heart leapt as he took in the long arms and shaggy hair. Sam was smiling as he made his way over to the car. He bent and snagged a beer from the cooler and then perched himself on the hood of the car.

“Hey, Dean.”

Dean swallowed thickly and prepared himself to battle, to free his mouth from the restraints of the dream to say what he needed to say, but no matter how hard he tried all that came out was a relaxed, “Sam.”

“Like the bracelet.”

Dean looked down and saw the silver cuff was still encircling his wrist, though it didn’t seem to be attached to anything.

“So, what trouble you got yourself in this time?” Sam asked.

“Bobby’s locked me up,” Dean said easily.

Sam huffed a laugh. “You must have really pissed him off this time. What did you do?”

“He thinks I’m on a suicide mission,” Dean said, all the while fighting to free himself to say what he really wanted. “I’ve got the colt and I’m going after Lilith.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Big plans.”

Dean nodded and took a swig of his beer. “He’s got me locked up in the panic room.”

“Heavy stuff. How are you going to get out?”

“No idea.”

“You have to find a way, Dean.” Sam’s eyes were intense. “You have to kill her.”

“I know,” Dean said. “But how?”

Sam shrugged. “No idea. Bobby’s not thinking clearly. You need to get through to him. Make him understand that this is bigger than you and him. This is the world.”

“I’ve tried.”

“Try harder!” Sam snapped.

Dean nodded jerkily. “I will.”

Sam breathed a heavy sigh. “Good.” He got to his feet and made for the mist again. Dean reached out to catch his arm, but it moved through Sam as if he was made of smoke. Sam turned back to look at him and a rueful smile curved his lips. “It’s not real, Dean.”

Sam started for the mist again, and Dean called out after him. “Sammy, is it true what they’re saying. Are you a demon now?”

Sam’s blinked and when he opened his eyes, they were onyx black. “Yeah. It’s not so bad. At least I'm out of the pit.”

Dean closed his eyes and shook his head. He couldn’t bear to see the black-eyed version of his brother.

“See ya, Dean,” Sam called. “Real soon.”

Dean didn’t see him go, but he felt Sam’s presence leaving him. He opened his eyes again and saw that he was alone. He cursed whatever had controlled him. Once again he’d had the chance to talk to Sam and he’d been unable to say what he needed to say.

Suddenly, a loud creaking noise cut through the clearing. Dean looked around for the source of the noise, but even as he looked the clearing broke apart, casting him into shadow. For a second, Dean was in complete darkness, with no sensory input at all, and then he woke in the panic room. He pushed himself to a sitting position and looked around. The door was open a crack. He glanced down at his wrist and saw the handcuff was gone. Someone had freed him.

He almost called out to Bobby, then reason caught up with him. If Bobby came down now, he would attempt to lock Dean up again, and Dean would have to fight him. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, least of all Bobby, so he got to his feet and crept across the panic room to the door. He half expected to be assailed at any moment, but no one came. He made it up to the library without interruption.

Bobby was sitting on the couch, fast asleep with his chin resting on his chest. Beside him was a half-empty bottle of whiskey. On the desk was the colt and Ruby’s knife. Wary of making too much noise, Dean picked them up and stowed them in his pockets. He grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair and made his way outside. He got to the car and, hoping Bobby’s hadn’t fleeced his jacket too, he searched for his keys. Luck was on his side; they were in the pocket where he had left them. He unlocked the door and then froze as he heard footsteps on the porch behind him. He turned and his heart sank as he saw Bobby with a rifle in his hands, pointed at him.

“Uh-uh, Dean,” Bobby said, coming down the steps to stand opposite Dean. “The only place you're going is back inside with me.”

“No,” Dean said firmly.

“Damn it, boy.”

“You won't shoot me, Bobby.” Dean knew it. Bobby was a good man; he wouldn’t shoot him.

Bobby gritted his teeth. “Don't test me.”

“You won't do it. You can't do it.”

“I’m trying to help you, Dean,” he said miserably. “I’m trying to save you. Just wait a little longer. Give the angels a chance to come.”

Dean shook his head. “I can’t. Sam wants me to do this.”

“Sam? What…?”

There was a fluttering sound and both Dean and Bobby turned to see who it would be. Dean was disappointed to see Uriel standing behind Bobby.

“Enough of this,” he said brutally. He touched two fingers to Bobby’s temple and the older man crumpled to the ground. “We don’t have much time. Lilith is at the final seal already.”

“Then let’s go,” Dean said.

Uriel nodded solemnly and then Dean felt the dizzying sensation of being moved. When they came to a stop they were in front of a small building with stained-glass windows and a tall spire.

“She’s at a church?” Dean asked.

“It’s a convent actually. This is the chapel. Now, you have to move fast. Lilith is inside. Don’t hesitate. She will try to trick you. As soon as she’s within your sights, shoot.”

He waved a hand and the doors flew open. Dean walked forward slowly, the realization of what was about to happen settling over him. He was going to kill Lilith. He was going to save the world. It would come at a cost, his life, but he’d made peace with that.

The hall he came into was whitewashed and devoid of all decoration. At the end of the passage was another set of heavy, wooden doors. As Dean reached them, they flew open and Lilith was revealed. She had taken a new meat suit, another young, blonde girl. Dean was sure it was her though as her eyes were a milky white.

She smiled at him. “Dean, I hoped I would be seeing you again. And on this day, too.”

“The day you’re going to die.”

She laughed. “No, Dean. It’s midnight. Thirteen months ago today, I sent you to Hell. Then, three months later, I took your brother there, too.”

Dean shook his head, forgetting what Uriel had said about not talking to her. “That wasn’t you. That was Azazel’s daughter.”

She tittered. “And who do you think issued her orders? Really, Dean, I knew your brother had the brains in the family but I didn’t realize you were this slow. As soon as I realized Sam was deviating from his assigned path, I arranged for the deal to be made. I needed Sam in Hell and you topside again. Where one brother failed, another would succeed.”

“Fail at what?” Dean asked.

She smiled smugly. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Now, the time for these niceties is over. I have a job to do.” She turned away from him and fumbled with something at the altar. Dean knew it was the right moment, he had to stop her doing whatever it was she was doing. He pulled back the safety and aimed at her back.

She turned as she heard the gun cock. “Are you going to shoot me, Dean?”

Dean nodded curtly. He would kill her and save the world, avenging his brother in the process. He had to do it.

“I don’t think you will,” she said. “You don’t have the—“

Dean pulled the trigger and the bullet pierced her, right over her heart. She fell back against the altar and slid to the floor. Blood flowed freely from her wound, soaking her dress.

“You did it,” she breathed, and then her eyes fell closed and her head tilted to the side. She was dead. Dean had done it at last.

His hand shook as he lowered the gun and he sighed out a heavy breath. There was a definite sense of anticlimax now it was over. He had been running towards this place for months, now he didn’t know what to do next. He hadn’t expected to live this long. He had been sure that she would have been protected. Even now he was supposed to be on his way to Hell again.

He heard a dark chuckle and he spun on his heel. Uriel was standing behind him, looking supremely satisfied. “You did it. By God you actually did it” He looked exultant.

“Yeah,” Dean sighed with relief. “It’s done. It’s over.”

He had done it at last. He had avenged himself and his brother. Now he could finally rest.

“The righteous man who begins it is the only one who can finish it. It’s finished, all right,” Uriel said. “You finished it for us all. For the world.”

“I… What?” Sick fear curdled in Dean’s gut.

“You released him,” Uriel said. “He is freed.”

Dean gaped at him. “But I killed her.”

“And it is written that the first demon shall be the last seal,” Uriel said.

“No! No, no, no! I killed her. I finished it.”

“Dean, Dean, Dean, don’t you understand what you’ve done? You have freed him and the foretold battle can commence. You have answered our prayers.”

The blood that had pooled around Lilith was moving as if seeping though a pattern in the floor.

“What’s happening?” he asked in a fear-filled voice.

“He’s coming,” Uriel said with a beatific smile. “He is ris—“ His words cut off and blood spilled from his mouth. From behind him stepped Anna, a long, bloodied blade in her hand. “Dean, we have to go.”

“What’s happening, Anna? What have I done.”

The blood had flowed into a perfect circle with lines meeting at the center. From the centre poured a pure white light, and Dean knew it was over for him. Lucifer was rising and Dean was going to die.

Anna shook her head and crossed the room. She gripped Dean’s elbow and he felt himself being moved through space. His eyes closed, and though he could not see, he knew where they came to a stop as the scent of whiskey and old spice was in the air. He opened his eyes and saw Bobby standing opposite him. He gave him barely a second’s attention before he spun on his heel and looked at Anna.

“Was he lying, Uriel?” he asked.

She shook her head sadly. “He is risen. “

“I did this,” Dean said in a tremulous voice.

The realization was sinking in slowly. He had killed Lilith, thinking he was saving the world, but he had doomed it. Lucifer was risen and the world would suffer, all because of Dean.

“I cannot stay,” Anna said. “They are coming.” With a soft fluttering sound, she disappeared.

Dean’s legs didn’t seem able to hold him. He staggered over to the couch and sank down with his head in his hands. He was in shock.

“What’s happened?” Bobby asked.

Dean swallowed thickly. “I’ve killed us all.”

Bobby looked at him blankly. He opened his mouth to say something more, possibly to ask what the hell Dean was talking about, but the question died on his lips as the phone rang.

Seemingly on autopilot, he walked across the room and picked it up. “This better be good, ‘cause I’ve got a real situation going on.” There was a brief pause as he listened to whoever was calling. “Ellen, calm down. Tell me what’s happened.”

Dean looked up in time to see all the color drain from Bobby’s face as he reacted to what he was being told. He swallowed thickly, wondering what calamity had happened now. Was it because of him? Was Lucifer wreaking havoc already?

“We’ll be right there,” Bobby said quietly. He set the phone down and rubbed a hand over his face. He still looked pale and his hands were a little shaky.

“Bobby, what is it?”

Bobby started, as if just noticing Dean was still there. He spoke in a whisper. “It’s Sam. He’s…” He gulped. “He’s back.”


	23. Epilogue

_Sam braced himself for the pain to come again, but there was nothing._

_That was wrong. There was always pain. When the reprieve from the physical came, it would be emotional. He preferred the physical. When your flesh was being flensed from your bones, you knew what to expect. When they were wearing the faces of people Sam loved, it was harder. They said things and did things that hurt Sam more than the hot pokers and knives that they used._

_He thought perhaps it was time for her to come again, to make her offer, but she didn’t come._

_Confused, he opened his eyes. There was nothing but darkness. Not even a sliver of light came to him. The air felt different though. It was musty, and as he breathed it in, he realized how shallow it was._

_His breath came in a rasp and he coughed. “Hello. Is someone there?”_

_There was no response, not that he expected one. This had to be their new torture, and they wouldn’t spoil it by alerting him to where he was. He reached out with his other senses to try to make sense of his surroundings. He was laying on something hard and his hands were laid over his chest. Slowly, he flexed his fingers and found that he had freedom to move. He shrugged his shoulders and realized movement was limited._

_He inhaled deeply through his nose, both drawing air into his strained lungs and searching for more clues to his location. He could smell wood and earth and something unpleasant. He didn’t want to think about that smell. It couldn’t lead anywhere good. His hands lifted and he felt around him. He was inside a wooden box; he could feel the rough grain against his skin._

_He drew a shaky breath and understanding dawned. He was in a coffin._

_Of all the torments Lilith and her cronies had put him through, this had to be the worst. They were twisted and cruel. He knew what he was supposed to think, that he’d been saved, and as soon as the relief had sunk in, they would tear back the curtain, and he would be on the rack._

_His lungs began to burn from the thin air, and though his knew it was an illusion—he didn’t need air in Hell—he knew he had to do something about it; he had to get free._

_Crying internally, he fisted his hands and punched at the wooden ceiling of his prison. A trickle of dirt slipped down over him and he whimpered. He was going to have to dig his way out. He would have given anything in that moment to be under the knife again. Anything was better than this._

_Need overcame horror and he began to pummel the wooden ceiling, sending dirt spewing down over his face and body. He spat, clearing his mouth, and pushed harder._

_Slowly, achingly slowly, he made progress upwards. His lungs had long since run out of air and he was fighting with a swimming head to stay conscious as he grappled with the dirt. Then, with a rush of relief, his hands broke the surface of the earth. He forced them sideways, dragging himself out of the hole with tremendous effort. As his face met the cool air, he drew a shuddering breath of fresh air._

_He had a moment’s heady relief, and then he was petrified again. There was so much noise. He had to get away from it. He could hear laughter and voices, and he knew it was the demons coming for him again. He struggled to his feet and looked around. The place was familiar, but his mind refused to present him with the name of his location; it was busy fighting outright panic. He saw a large shadow looming over him in the darkness and he made his way towards it._

_He found himself in a musty smelling room. There was no light inside, but he preferred the inky darkness. He pulled the door closed behind him and the sound of the demon’s voices and laughter was muffled._

_He breathed a sigh of relief. It would take them time to find him here. He could hide a while away from the knives and heat and pain._

_He could rest._


End file.
